


A Song Of Subs And Fenders

by Ship_Mates (daysandweeks)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings Apply, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blogging, Cocaine, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Gun Violence, Los Angeles, M/M, Marijuana, Modern Era, Musicians, New York City, POV Alternating, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Philadelphia, Pregnancy, Rape Aftermath, Recreational Drug Use, Robbery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Texting, Underage Drinking, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daysandweeks/pseuds/Ship_Mates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in NYC and L.A. circa nowadays, follow the major families you know and love as they battle for Grammys instead of the Iron Throne. Sansa is an up-and-coming pop star, Joffrey is a J. Biebs figure, Jon misses his dead girlfriend, Ned & Catelyn struggle to run their nightclub, and Gilly & Sam work at a dive bar known as The Wall. Who will win the EGOT first?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa: The Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking out our work! Our names (read: initials) are K and E. We usually write every other chapter, then pass it onto the other, but we'll keep you updated on how that goes. Any warnings that need to be included will be in the beginning note. Tags, rating, etc. are subject to change. This is a WIP, but we're so excited to share it! Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark performs her first concert at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! It's K. I write Sansa, and I had a lot of fun with this chapter. I love feedback, so let me know what you think.

Nepotism displeased her, at least when it benefited herself. Because of this, the fact that Sansa was playing her first real show at Winterfell felt unjust. More than that, though, everything felt like a surreal amalgamation of nostalgia and possibility, as if Sansa stood on the edge of her childhood and the threshold of her career as a musician at the same time.

The crowd was uproarious. Not to see Sansa, but because it was a Friday at Winterfell, when things were always loud. Sansa had spent more than a few nights of her childhood in the manager’s office, and even on Tuesdays the noisiness of the club had caused her to struggle to finish her homework. The venue, a warehouse that had been renovated going on three decades ago, was always noisy to the point of distraction. But when someone was performing… Well, it was an honor to play here tonight, no matter the fact that her father owned the famed New York City nightclub.

“You ready?”

Sansa turned around to see her brother Robb smiling at her. He resembled their father’s side of the family more with his wavy dark hair, while Sansa sported a long, straight, red mane. A lone singer, she’d needed a back-up guitarist for the night, and Robb was the first person she thought to ask. Of course, her half-brother Jon would have garnered a larger crowd – he had a fan base of his own already – but this night was about _her_ performance… Not to mention, she got on far better with Robb than she did with Jon.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sansa said with a small smile. At sound-check earlier, things had gone well. She’d sang with Robb plenty of times growing up, so they already had that connection. “Thank you so much for supporting me tonight, Robb, even if things go horribly.”

Robb’s smile turned to a smirk and he rolled his eyes, bringing Sansa in for a hug. He was tall, but so was Sansa, so her head rested comfortably on his shoulder as she returned the affection. “You’re gonna kick ass out there, little sis,” he told her. “Now come on. Let’s get out there.”

Sansa whirled around to see that the stage lights had indeed turned on. From their view in the wings, she could see the MC, a spunky-looking girl with colorful hair, trotting up to the mic. “Ladies and gentleman!” she called. “Give it up for our performer tonight, Sansa!” Sansa couldn’t help but smile abashedly. She’d hoped they would leave her last name out. Her family didn’t embarrass her; she loved being a Stark. But again, nepotism and all that.

Robb led the way, heading towards his stool and guitar. Sansa took a deep breath, thrust her shoulders back, and then power-walked her way across the stage to the mic as the MC exited stage right. _You can do this, Stark_ , she said to herself, letting out her breath.

For a split second, Sansa was caught in the spotlight, staring out at the crowd. She could barely see them against the glare, but they were there all the same, most quieting down to hear her perform. The vibe of Winterfell depended on the performance on stage. She could wow them with a spectacular performance, drawing all attention to her, or just provide fun background music and let the crowd do its own thing. But Sansa wasn’t here to make background music. She was here to be a star.

Her sound was a little softer than what Winterfell was used to, but she wasn’t going to change who she was. On YouTube, the videos that had gotten the most hits were all of her covers. Sansa knew she at least had that going for her. She did covers like no one else could. With a nod at Robb to start strumming on his plugged-in acoustic, she began.

            _“Same bed but it feels just a little bit bigger now_

_Our song on the radio, but it don’t sound the same._

_When our friends talk about me I hope it just tears you down_

_‘Cause my heart broke when you left that day_

_And it all just sounds like, “Oooh.”_

_I was too young, too dumb to realize_

_You never bought me flowers, you never held my hand_

_Never gave me any of your hours while you had the chance_

_Never took me to your parties, and you knew I loved to dance_

_Well now, baby, I’m dancing, but I’m dancing with a better man”_

At the pause before the next verse, Sansa strained to listen over Robb’s guitar. People were talking, but in hushed tones. She had to pull the microphone from the stand and strut across the stage to keep from jumping up in down with excitement.

            _“Your pride, your ego, your needs and your selfish ways_

_Caused a good strong woman like me to walk out your life”_

She went in for the kill now, raising her voice, pouring her passion into the song, forgetting about the crowd and focusing instead on the words and the ex-boyfriend who had inspired her to redo a sappy Bruno Mars song.

            “ _Now you’ll never,_ never _get to clean up the mess you maa-aade_

_I bet that haunts you every time you close your eyes”_

People were cheering! Sansa faced the crowd, opening her eyes after her outpouring of emotion as she continued into the chorus. A group of young women stood by the stage and were singing along, raising their lite beers to her, cheering whenever her changed lyrics focused on what it felt like to leave behind a shitty ex. She glanced back at Robb, who grinned at her as he continued to play. If his hands were free, she was sure he would have given her two thumbs up.

It was time to slow down now. Energized by the crowd, Sansa slipped towards the front of the stage, singing to the three women who had raised their beers to her.

            _“Girls, I hope he buys you flowers, I hope he holds your hands”_

Sansa crouched and took the one girl’s hand, and the “wooo!” she erupted in sent her confidence sky-rocketing.

_“Hope he gives you all his hours when he has the chance_

_He’ll take you to every party because I know how much you love to dance_

_He’ll do all the things that asshole shoulda done when he was your man”_

Standing up fully, she gazed out into the crowd, making eye contact with a man at the bar at random. She couldn’t make out faces that far away against the glare of the stage lights.

            _“He does all the things you coulda done when you were my man”_

The crowd exploded with applause and Sansa couldn’t help but grin like the cat that got the cream at her brother. Now, Robb really did give her two thumbs up before joining in the applause. The song wasn’t the most high-energy, but damn, had it been a good choice. “Thank you Winterfell!” Sansa called into the mic, placing it back into the stand as she faced the crowd. “It’s wonderful to sing here tonight in New York City!” She stepped away to take a sip of water, and before she knew it, Robb was on the electric guitar, playing one of his original songs, one that she knew the words to. From there, it was all came naturally, and the rest of her performance was a blur of adrenaline and beauty.

Before Sansa knew it, it was time to take a break. The MC ushered her off stage and she was led to the bar, where her father sat. He immediately stood up the second he saw her and scooped her up into a bear hug. “You’re doing _wonderful_ , Sansa,” he said to her, holding her at arm’s length now.

Ned Stark, the owner of Winterfell, was a tall man like his children. He wore his hair long, almost to his shoulders, and had for at least thirty years now. Broad, prone to wearing black, and covered in tattoos, he was the image of an aging eighties rocker. And while slim, feminine Sansa was different from her father in appearances, he meant everything to her. Her relationship with her mother was even closer. “Thanks, Dad,” she said with a shy smile. Of course, Sansa lived for praise, but that didn’t mean it embarrassed her any less than the average person.

Robb handed her a glass of white wine and clinked his craft beer against it. “To your first show,” he toasted, and the two each took a sip, though Robb’s was more of a gulp.

Sansa only had twenty minutes before her final set, and Ned made sure she was plenty busy making the rounds and talking to people. All of it was a blur, and she only had five minutes at the end of the intermission to run to the bathroom in the manager’s office, located fairly close to backstage. In the bathroom, she fixed her hair, applied another coat of bright pink lipstick – she didn’t care if people thought it clashed with her hair, she liked it – and knocked back the remainder of her glass of wine. The combination of alcohol and adrenaline gave her a buzz that left her more than excited for the rest of the show. Sure, a fairly popular local band would be on shortly after her, but one day she would have people opening for _her_. Sansa certainly hoped and even dared to have a feeling that that day was coming soon.

Leaving the wine glass on the sink, she left the bathroom and then the office, glancing down at her phone to see that she had a ton of notifications and only three minutes now before she had to be on stage. She was so busy replying to a text from her best friend, Jeyne, that she nearly collided with a man standing in the shadow outside of the office. “Ooh! Sorry!” Sansa cried, dropping her phone onto the distressed hardwood floor.

“The fault is mine,” the man said, bending to pick the phone up. He had graying hair that had once been dark, which was all she could see until he stood back up and handed Sansa her iPhone. “I apologize for startling you.” The way he said it, though, made Sansa doubt him. He certainly had been waiting for her outside of the office.

The man wasn’t particularly tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Sansa, and slight, too. Still, he cut a fine figure in his dress pants, collared shirt, and tie, the colors of which Sansa couldn’t make out in the dim light of the concert hall. “Your performance tonight blew me out of the water, Miss Stark.”

 _So he knows who I am_. Really, it wouldn’t have taken a lot of work, though, if he had been watching her. After all, she’d run straight out of the first set to hug her father and talk to his friends. “Thank you,” she said, only mildly startled now.

“I only wonder, are you signed yet?”

Sansa blinked, pleasantly taken aback. The whole point of coming out tonight was to impress a talent scout who might sign her to a record label. “I haven’t,” she informed the man. “Which label are you from?”

His smile was sideways as he informed her, “Oh, I’m not from a label.” His flicked a card out of, well, Sansa wasn’t sure where. It seemed to suddenly just appear in his hand, as if by magic. She took it and glanced down at the writing. _PetyrBaelish. Agent._

“O-oh.” Sansa hadn’t thought about an agent. She hadn’t thought about any of it, really, aside from tonight and then what it might be like to record an album.

Suddenly, Robb popped into the hall from backstage. “Come on, Sansa,” he called. “We’re on in thirty seconds.” He glanced at Baelish, then popped backstage again.

“I’ve got to go,” Sansa said. Not wanting to be rude, she made a show of putting the card in the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Baelish.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Baelish insisted with a small nod. “I hope to hear from you. And please, call me Petyr.”

~

_* BEEP BEEP BEEP *_

There was nothing more annoying in the world than Sansa’s alarm tone, even at twelve noon. She fumbled for her phone to switch it off before groaning and burying her head beneath her pillow. Her ears were still ringing from last night, not to mention the fact that she was suffering from a major headache and a case of dry mouth. After the show, she and Robb had stayed at the bar, and plenty of new fans had bought her drinks. She’d probably done three too many shots of Fireball. Maybe five too many.

But it didn’t matter how hungover Sansa was. For now, playing shows, even at places like Winterfell, wasn’t paying the bills. Neither were any of her other three jobs, either, if she was being honest. She was lucky enough to have semi-rich-and-famous parents, but again with the nepotism… Sansa insisted on making her own way whenever possible. If her parents had taught their children anything, it was work ethic.

Sansa finally got out of bed and headed into the kitchen of her apartment to attempt to eat breakfast. She passed Jeyne, who was sleeping on the couch, as usual. Jeyne, too, worked quite a few jobs, and some nights she was too exhausted to make it from the front door all the way to her bed (a whole twenty feet away) and so she just crashed on the couch in her work uniform. “Christ, Sansa,” Jeyne complained, rubbing her eyes. “I heard your phone go off 900 times last night. _With_ the door shut and everything. Who was calling you?”

“Pretty sure you were hearing things, Jeyne,” she said, proceeding on her way.

Three struggle-filled bites into her bagel thin, Sansa was surprised by Jeyne plunking her iPhone down on the dining table. “Look,” she insisted. “Told you so.” Sure enough, Sansa’s phone display showed multiple unread iMessages, missed calls, and e-mails. She had slept right through them.

It was annoying how nosy Jeyne could be sometimes, but she meant well. Sansa shrugged her behavior off before reading through her notifications. Most of the messages were congratulatory or questioning texts from friends and family all about last night, but there were a few messages form new contacts, too. Somehow, Petyr Baelish had tracked down her e-mail (though maybe [sansa.stark@gmail.com](mailto:sansa.stark@gmail.com) wasn’t the most difficult of addresses to find). She also had a message from one Robert Baratheon, CEO, Fury Records.

_Holy fucking shit._

Sansa dropped her bagel. It made a rather non-dramatic thump against her plastic plate. Thankfully, it landed cream cheese side up.

To be fair, Sansa wasn’t as shocked as most would have been to receive a message from Robert Baratheon. He was, after all, her dad’s old friend. The two had opened Winterfell together and still remained fairly close. They rarely saw one another, but Sansa knew that Ned and Robert considered the other their best friend. Still, to think that the CEO of Fury Records had reached out to _her_ …

This was too good to be true. She clicked on the e-mail, ignoring the constant banner notifications from Twitter. (Apparently, #SansaTakesWinterfell had trended in the tri-state area last night, some time after that third Fireball shot.) While being a trending topic was plenty exciting, an e-mail from Robert Baratheon took the cake.

What followed was short and sweet, though beneath it was a rather interesting electronic paper trail. Apparently, Mr. Baratheon had been so excited to talk to her that he’d tracked down her e-mail himself, not through one of his talent scounts, but through Ned. They’d spent about three e-mails each reminiscing about the old days (Sansa had _not_ needed to know about the Acid Trip of ’77) before Robert finally remembered why he had e-mailed his old friend in the first place and then accidentally forwarded the entire chain to Sansa. Oh, Baby Boomers and technology.

_Sansa – I hope you’re doing well. Actually, I know you are, from what I saw at Winterfell last night. Call me when you get this. I have something I would like to discuss._

_Robert Baratheon_

_CEO & Owner_

_Fury Records_

~

How did one keep it quiet all day about getting an e-mail from Robert Baratheon?! _He wants to sign me!!_ Sansa found herself thinking all day at her waitressing job. She was on hostess duty, and as she sat customers and consulted the seating chart, she composed lyrics in her head. _My first album should have twelve songs_ , she decided. _And two bonus tracks, like, if it generates enough interest._

Her phone burned a hole in her pocket the entire shift, and on bathroom breaks she checked it to text her dad for advice. _Can I call him tonight? Is that too late?_

 _It’s never too late with Baratheon_ , Ned assured her. He also sent two emoji – a microphone and a winking face. He had just discovered the little yellow smiley faces and was convinced using them made him look “with it.”

Finally, Sansa was done with her shift. She knew she couldn’t wait any longer, and so it was in her car, from the parking lot, at nine-thirty in the evening that she called Robert Baratheon on his direct cell phone and her entire life changed.

~

Four nights ago, Sansa had performed at Winterfell. This morning, she was on a plane headed to LAX.

Getting out of her shifts had been a nightmare, but the way Sansa saw it, _this_ was her future. Not seating grumpy customers who barely tipped, not slinging drinks in booty shorts, not crooning at a jazz club full of gray-haired businessmen with creepily winked at her. _This_ was her calling, and she would give up anything in the world for it. Jeyne also worked at the restaurant, so she’d picked up her hours there. The bar let her go without a second thought – long-legged girls were a dime a dozen in New York. As for the jazz club, well, Sansa hadn’t even bothered calling them. She’d shot off a text to the owner, who she was ninety percent sure didn’t know how to text back.

Traveling was exhausting, but Sansa had survived the past week or so on adrenaline alone, and so she felt rather fresh once she checked into her hotel. Still, she showered, hydrated herself, and dressed in her most business-like but still casual attire. She had heard that L.A. was extremely laid-back, and of course, she wanted to sell her brand. For a moment, she wondered whether or not she should have an agent or manager to help her out during a time like this. She’d left PetyrBaelish’s card in her skinny jeans, though, and that was the only contact she had. Besides, something about her bothered her, somewhere deep down in her gut.

Right after Sansa was done dressing and blow-drying her hair into a soft, tousled look, a black car arrived at the hotel to take her to Fury Records. In the car ride over, she was surprised not to be a bundle of nerves. Perhaps Sansa was already getting used to everything. It helped, of course, that her parents were both in the business, as well as her two older brothers in some way or another. She certainly had the experience and knew what she was to expect and ask for at a meeting like this. Jon had signed with Fury Records quite a few years ago, though he hadn’t ever put out a second album, and her father was constantly negotiating with performers at Winterfell. Her mother also had experience as a singer.

When the car pulled up, Sansa was shocked at how quickly the door opened. Was a doorman waiting for her? She hadn’t expected such promptness and attention to detail in Los Angeles. When she glanced up at the man holding the door open for her, though, she was surprised to see that he wasn’t, in fact, a doorman. He was dressed in street clothes – a pair of fitted shorts and a plain white T-shirt with immaculate sneakers. He wasn’t tall, perhaps her height, but something about him… The blonde hair, the surprised blue eyes, the lopsided grin? Sansa felt her heart race and her mouth go dry. _It’s Joff._

“Oh, my bad,” the young man said, stepping away from the door and allowing Sansa room to exit the car. “Thought this was my ride.” He gallantly reached out and took Sansa’s hand, helping her from the vehicle. When she stepped out, he held her hand for a second or two longer than was necessary.

_Oh my God. I’m holding hands with Joffrey Baratheon!_

Joff was a pop star, and perhaps the most idolized one by tweens, teens, and twenty-something women alike. He was about Sansa’s age with blonde hair and a cocky grin, and his songs were meant for dancing your ass off, either that, or crying alone into your ice cream with. “Crossbow Shot (to My Heart)”had been on repeat on her gym playlist for the past month.

“Quiet, aren’t you?” he asked, and though it was cocky, it was also charming. His smirk was infectious, and Sansa felt herself smiling back. “I’m sorry I tried to get in your car, if you’re waiting for an apology.”

Sansa laughed, he voice finally coming back to her. “Just a misunderstanding, no worries. I’m coming and you’re going. It happens.”

“You’re coming, are you?” That smirk again! Was he making a risqué joke? Sansa blushed and bit her lip, racking her brain for a witty response.

“I’m Joff,” he offered, reaching out his hand to shake hers, as if she would have no idea who he was without introduction. “And you are…?”

Again, they were holding hands, though this time just to shake them. His grip was firm, his smile perfect and white and straight. “Sansa Stark,” she told him.

“Ah, Stark!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “You’re Ned Stark’s daughter, here to talk to my father about a record deal.”

 _A record deal!_ Sansa had to try very, very hard not to squeal. Of course, Robert had told her on the phone a few days ago that he wanted to fly her out, talk with her, and record a single as well as her “When I Was Your Man” cover. She’d hoped that that would progress into a deal for a full album, but hadn’t dared to dream. “Yes, that’s me,” she confirmed, keeping her cool as best as she could. With as good of a disinterested glance as she could muster, Sansa gazed up at the windows of the building before her.

“I should let you go,” Joff said, and Sansa felt herself missing him already. “Don’t want you to be late for your appointment, though a gorgeous woman like yourself… Well, I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind.” Sansa smiled at his compliment, willing herself not to blush.

“How long are you in town for?” he asked offhandedly as he stepped into the black car.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Sansa stammered. _Nice going, Stark._ “However long my business takes me.” She stood taller than him now, but even staring down at him, Joff was gorgeous.

“Hmm, mysterious,” he said, and Sansa truly _did_ feel mysterious and special in that moment. “Well, if you’re still here tonight, might I take you out for a drink? There’s a great place in Pasadena that I’d love to take a pretty redhead to.”

“Oh, well,” Sansa managed to flirt back, relieved that she’d finally found her cool. She shuffled from side to side, pulling at her yellow skirt, patterned with images of birds, playfully. “I suppose I’m free tonight. For a little bit, at least.”

Joff smirked, pulling his black iPhone from his pocket. “That’s what I like to hear.” He handed her his phone, a blank text message already brought up. “Just put in your number.”

Sansa typed hers in, then, boldly, sent herself a text so she would have Joff’s number too – just in case. Feeling flirtatious, she went to open up his emoji to send herself a kissy face. She was flustered to realize that he did not have the emoji app downloaded. “New phone?” she asked, settling for a _“to the hot redhead”_ text instead. “No emoji.”

Joff shrugged as she handed him his phone back. “I don’t like smiley faces. Unless they’re on a gorgeous girl like yourself.” He winked. “See you later.”

“Bye.” Sansa waved, feeling like a freshman who just got asked to the homecoming dance by a varsity football player as Joffrey shut the door and the car pulled away from the curb.

Sansa’s phone buzzed and she glanced down at it. _to the hot redhead_ , her phone read, and beneath that, _make that to the BEAUTIFUL redhead_.

Sansa took a deep breath and turned around, marching towards the doors emblazoned with the Fury Records logo. She felt like she was floating on Cloud 9, but there was no way she could survive her meeting with Robert Baratheon if she swooned right here on the spot.

And so, she held her head high and power-walked her way into the foyer, using confidence to chase the butterflies in her tummy away.

Sansa Stark had been in L.A. for three hours. JoffreyBaratheon, pop star sensation, _People_ ’s 14th Sexiest Man Alive, had asked her out. And now, she was going to get a record deal.

Forget Joffrey making _People_. Rolling Stone, Sansa said to herself, _here I come._


	2. Ned: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned deals with the highs and lows of family life, including his eldest daughter's new career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E writes Ned. :)

Ned had never been more proud of his oldest daughter. Last night was her public debut and she had stood on the stage and sang as though it were as easy as breathing. She sounded like an angel, too. Robert had kept shooting Ned glances the whole time she was performing. Best friends since they were ten, Ned could understand Robert without a word. _Oh my God, are you seeing this? Ned, why didn't you tell me about her sooner? I can't even fucking believe this._ Finally, when Sansa was done her six songs, three per set, and tonight's main act went on, Robert sidled over to the bar to use his words. Ned sent a lager Robert's way as he settled himself on a stool.

"I'm so glad you replaced those stools we bought back in 1981," Robert said as he grabbed the beer. Ned and Robert had opened Winterfell together back in 1980. The two had pooled all their money to buy this abandoned warehouse in the city. They had had just enough money left for a bar and a stage. It had been standing room only until they splurged and bought bar stools about a year after opening.

"Robert, I've replaced the stools three times since then," Ned replied, picking up a dishcloth to continue wiping the bar down.

"If you say so, Ned. Look, I gotta get back in there to watch this next act. What was their name again? House of the Undying?" Ned nodded and Robert sighed.

"They sound like bloody hipsters. Whatever. Gotta go to work. Anyway, I want to sign Sansa. Swing by the offices tomorrow and we will have the paperwork ready to go. You know my usual starter deal. One album, one countrywide tour, renegotiate at the end of two years. Two million base pay plus royalties and a percentage of the concert tickets sold. Talk it over with Sansa and Cat, but I figure I'll see you tomorrow at Stannis's Manhattan offices around noon. "

"Sounds fair, Robert. Thanks." Ned extended his hand and the other man shook it while draining the rest of his beer. Robert ran his hand through his long, dark hair and nodded. He grabbed another beer from Ned before walking back to his favorite table on the left side of the stage.

When Ned finally rolled into his bed some time around four in the morning, he was surprised to find his wife, Catelyn, awake.

"Good morning, sweetheart, I didn't expect you to be awake," Ned said playfully, pulling Cat into his embrace and kissing her neck.

"What did Robert say?" she asked, cutting right to the chase. Ned let her go. She was loaded for bear. No matter what he said this was going to turn into a fight. Might as well have it out now.

"He wants to sign Sansa. Two years, one album, one tour, two million plus royalties and a percentage of ticket sales. His basic starter offer."

"I don't want her to sign."

"Catelyn, she's nineteen. It's not our decision. She's going to go tomorrow, she's going to listen to Robert's proposal, and she's going to decide if she wants to sign. You know she has wanted this for a while."

"She's too young, Ned. Younger than I was!"

Catelyn had been the first artist Robert had ever signed. Ned still remembered the night they met like a movie he had seen a dozen times.

~

Winterfell had been open perhaps six months. Robert had come up with this idea to have a weekly karaoke night. It turned out to be a great idea. Winterfell was packed on Wednesday nights. Catelyn Tully was fresh off the bus from Ohio to visit her sister, Lysa, who had married a much older man and moved to the big city. Cat was in New York to see Lysa and Arryn's new penthouse and because she missed her sister. She hadn't seen her since the wedding and frankly, it was lonely at the farm with just her parents. Lysa had dragged Cat to the newest hot spot, claiming that she “just had to see this place.” After about three shots of liquid courage, Catelyn had decided to give karaoke a try.

 _I was five and he was six_  
_We rode on horses made of sticks_  
_He wore black and I wore white_  
_He would always win the fight_

The second she started singing, Robert's head whipped around to see who the hell was on the stage, suddenly at attention. Ned was also at attention, some parts of him more so than others.

 _Bang bang, he shot me down_  
_Bang bang, I hit the ground_  
_Bang bang, that awful sound_  
_Bang bang, my baby shot me down_

She stood there in a cream-colored cotton dress that was almost sheer against the stage lights. Her dark red hair was unbound and flowing free down to her waist. No makeup, no jewelry, save an anklet that looked to be made of hemp. She couldn't have looked more out of place at Winterfell. She looked like some elfin forest creature, not a rocker.

 _Seasons came and changed the time_  
_When I grew up, I called him mine_  
_He would always laugh and say_  
_"Remember when we used to play?"_

The second she started singing, Ned knew he was in trouble. He needed to know who this woman was.

 _Bang bang, I shot you down_  
_Bang bang, you hit the ground_  
_Bang bang, that awful sound_  
_Bang bang, I used to shoot you down_

She was squinting against the stage lights, gripping the mic just a bit too tightly. She wasn't entirely comfortable up there. But she wasn't running away either.

_Music played and people sang  
Just for me the church bells rang_

_Now he's gone, I don't know why_  
_And 'till this day, sometimes I cry_  
_He didn't even say goodbye_  
_He didn't take the time to lie_

Ned glanced at Robert, whose mouth was slightly ajar, but Ned could tell from that one glance that Robert wasn't going to be competition. Robert preferred blondes. No, Robert's interest was purely business. Ned relaxed a bit and allowed himself to enjoy the rest of the song.

 _Bang bang, he shot me down_  
_Bang bang, I hit the ground_  
_Bang bang, that awful sound_  
_Bang bang, my baby shot me down_

~

"But she's not you, Cat," Ned replied, even though he wasn't quite sure of that argument. He knew was Cat was afraid of, and if he was being honest with himself, he was afraid of the same thing. He had found the empty glass in the office Sansa was using as a dressing room. He knew she had been drinking wine before the show.

Catelyn, being the young, naive, barely twenty-one-year-old she was at the time, had been easily schmoozed by Robert. Barely any effort on his part. She signed with Robert and Fury Records the very next day.

What Robert and Ned didn't know - couldn't have known - was that Catelyn was horribly afraid of crowds and public performances. The only reason she had sang that night at all was because she was drunk, it was only one song, and everyone was doing it since it was karaoke night.

Recording an album was no problem for Cat. She was alone in a room singing to herself. It wasn't until she went on tour that liquid courage became a necessity. At first it was only a few beers, then a bottle of wine, and eventually, an entire bottle of whiskey before she was drunk enough to numb her fears and walk on stage.

Eventually, Robert had made her go to rehab. Catelyn had been sober since 1988.

Cat sighed deeply, pulling Ned back to the present. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him.

"It's hard to let them go," she admitted to Ned's shoulder.

"I know, darling. But wouldn't it be nice if Sansa didn't have to work eighty-seven jobs to pay her rent?" Ned asked Cat's hair.

"It's only three jobs," Catelyn argued.

"That's still two more than a nineteen year old should have," Ned countered. "Oh shit, I forgot Sansa works tomorrow." Ned practically threw Cat out of his arms as he jumped out of bed and searched the pile of clothes in his corner of the room looking for his pants, and more importantly, his cell phone.

Ned deftly opened his email. It was one of the few functions he was familiar with. Technology was wasted on him for the most part. He found the last email he received from Robert and hit Reply.

_From: Ned Stark <WolfLord@Winterfell.com>_  
_To: Robert Baratheon <R.Baratheon@Fury.com>_  
_Subject: The Summer of '89_

_Robert,_

_I'm an asshole. I forgot Sansa is working tomorrow. Can we reschedule? Or do you want to meet tomorrow night? You're welcome to come to dinner._

_Ned_

"Isn't it a bit late to be emailing him? It's almost five in the morning," Cat asked from the bed.

"Nah, he never sleeps," Ned replied as his phone vibrated in response.

 _From: Robert Baratheon <R.Baratheon@Fury.com>_  
_To: Ned Stark <WolfLord@Winterfell.com>  
Subject: The Summer of '89_

_Ned,_

_Shit, man. I'm only in town until 5. I fly back to L.A. on the 5:43 flight. Uhhh... how about you give me Sansa's email and I'll just get in touch with her directly. I'll probably have to fly her out to L.A. Is the Mrs. cool with that? Or does Sansa need a permission slip?_

_Robert_

_P.S.- Did you see Petyr sniffing around Winterfell tonight? What a tool._

"What are you snickering about?" Catelyn asked.

"Nothing," Ned choked out. He couldn't admit to either mean thing Robert had said, since Petyr and Catelyn were childhood friends.

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" Catelyn raised an eyebrow at Ned in the dark.

"I'm not, but Robert is. Take it up with him."

"You two are such children," Catelyn sighed as she rolled over and away from Ned.

 _From: Ned Stark <WolfLord@Winterfell.com>_  
_To: Robert Baratheon <R.Baratheon@Fury.com>  
Subject: The Summer of '89_

_To The Man Who Just Got Me In Trouble,_

_Her contact information is sansa.stark@gmail.com (917) 555-8032. Let me know how it goes._

_The Guy With Blue Balls_

_P.S.- Who the hell spells Petyr like that? What is he, from the Netherlands or something?_

~

Ned woke up alone in bed some six hours later. He could hear laughter and smell coffee emanating from the kitchen.

His phone was blinking eagerly at him. Email. Robert.

 _From: Robert Baratheon <R.Baratheon@Fury.com>_  
_To: Ned Stark <WolfLord@Winterfell.com>  
Subject: The Summer of '89_

_Blue Balls,_

_Peter wishes he had seen Catelyn's Netherlands. Lol._

_:P  
Big Balls_

Meh. Ned hadn't had his coffee yet. He would answer later.

His phone was still blinking. He investigated. Text. From Sansa.

_Can I call him tonight? Is that too late?_

_It's never too late with Baratheon._

_I should add some of those little tiny pictures I can't really see_ , Ned thought to himself. He squinted at the available list. A microphone and a smiley thing. _Looks good_ , he decided, and headed into the kitchen.

Catelyn wasn't there. She was probably at Winterfell already overseeing the morning deliveries and counting last night's take.

Arya was sitting at the island feeding her Belgian Shepherd, Nymeria, bits of toast and eggs. Bran was tucked into the kitchen table, writing in a notebook. His Husky, Summer, was curled next to his wheelchair.

Rickon, his youngest son, was at his youth soccer league's Saturday meet. Ned would stop by on his way to work in about an hour. Rickon's Golden Retriever, Shaggy, was sunning himself in the pool of warmth the skylight let through.

Ned poured himself a cup of coffee. Black.

"Arya, did you finish your homework?" Ned asked. Arya started.

"Almost," she said guiltily. Arya had had problems with authority in the past. Ned and Catelyn had allowed her to leave high school a year ago at sixteen as long as she agreed to a private tutor and to get her GED. Lately, though, Arya's grades had been slipping.

"I told you, from now on, if you don't finish your homework, you don't go to your 'dance lessons,'" Ned said, as sternly as he could.

Arya ducked her head. "Yeah, okay Dad," she said as she and Nymeria went into her room.

Ayra wanted to join the UFC like no other. Ned was helping her keep her martial arts classes a secret from Catelyn until Arya decided to tell her. Publicly, they called them “dance lessons”. Ned had been urging her to come clean soon though, since it was only a matter of time until Cat became suspicious or wanted to go to a recital.

The coffee tasted a bit bitter. Like someone forgot to rinse the pot.

Ned wandered over to Bran, looking over his sixteen-year-old son's shoulder as he sipped his coffee. Bran was drawing. Looked like blueprints.

"Is that Winterfell?" Ned asked.

"Yup," said Bran proudly. "I figured out a more space efficient way to organize the stock room. This will free up about 20% more space. We could add another freezer here."

Ned was admittedly impressed. "That's brilliant! Good job."

Bran beamed. Ned was hesitant to encourage this too much. Bran had earned his GED two years ago when he had his accident that rendered him paralyzed from the waist down. Bored out of his mind in the hospital and then at home while he recovered, he had passed the GED tests in record time. He was going to have his associate's degree in Business by the end of this year as well.

Which meant that Bran was already thinking about the next thing. He was still a minor though, so it wasn't as though Ned could take him on in the capacity that Bran was hoping for. It was a fine line he was toeing, between encouraging Bran and squashing his ambitions. He just hoped he was doing the right thing.

~

Ned had stopped by Rickon's game just in time to watch him score the first goal. Ned stayed for the first half, then walked to Winterfell to get ready for the Saturday night circus. He made a pit stop at The Wall on his way there.

The Wall was one of the shittiest dive bars in New York. It was basically a shed with some twinkle lights thrown up for ambiance. The owners were two stoners in their late sixties. But this was where his oldest son, Jon, spent most of his time.

Ned spotted Jon at his usual corner table with Ned's second oldest son, Robb, and the boys' best friend, Theon. Robb and Theon smiled and waved when they saw Ned. Jon's brooding expression never changed, though he did nod in acknowledgement.

"Hey Ned, want a beer?" Mance, the one owner, called from the bar.

"No thanks, Man, just here to see my boys," Ned replied.

Ned plopped down in the extra seat. "How's it going?" he asked them.

"Not so good," Robb said, nodding at Jon. Ned counted six empty beers on the table.

"What happened?" Ned asked.

"They found him not guilty," Jon whispered, staring at his beer bottle but definitely not seeing it.

"Oh," Ned replied. About eight months ago, Jon's girlfriend, a former waitress at The Wall, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver on her way home from work. A teenager named Olly Something-or-other. Jon had been avidly following the trial.

"Has he been home at all?" Ned asked Theon and Robb.

"Not since yesterday morning," said Theon. "J and Mance said he slept here because they couldn't move him, so they just locked the place up with him in it."

Ned sighed. "Come on then, let's get him home."

Theon and Robb helped Ned scoop Jon up under the arms and hoist him to a standing position. Together, they half dragged, half walked Jon the block and a half back to the apartment he shared with Robb and Theon. Robb tossed Jon in the shower still half dressed and turned the cold water on. They heard Jon groan behind the curtain before they heard a thud as he sunk to the floor.

"Jon, you better not drown yourself in there. Robb and I can't afford the rent on our own," Theon yelled from the living room.

Ned went in and sat down on the toilet. He could hear Jon's muffled tears mixed in with the rain-like sound of the shower.

"Son, I'm sorry to hear about the kid. That's a rough blow."

"He was seventeen. He was Arya's age. He had no business having a blood alcohol level of .45. He had no business driving. How did they find him not guilty? How?" The sound of Jon's raw, broken voice nearly broke Ned's heart.

"I don't know, son. Sometimes justice is not always served." Ned heard the water shut off.

"Throw me a towel, Dad."

Ned tossed a towel up and over the curtain rod. A minute later, Jon emerged, wet, curly, black hair plastered to his neck, eyes bloodshot, pale as a polar bear.

"Why don't you come to dinner tonight?" Ned offered.

"Thanks, Dad, but I don't feel like dealing with Catelyn tonight. I'm not in the mood." Jon was Ned's son, but he wasn't Catelyn's. Ned had had a weekend long fling with a woman named Whitney shortly before he and Cat got back together, after her stint in rehab. Whitney was not a part of Jon's life though. It had always been Ned and Jon, and Cat had always resented that a bit. While not overtly mean to Jon, Catelyn had always been cold.

"I understand," Ned said. "Look, Jon, I want to talk about this some more, but I have to run."

"It's okay, Dad, I'm not suicidal or homicidal or even really mad. I'm just kind of numb. I won't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry, Dad, we have him covered," Robb called from the kitchen between bites of his sandwich.

"Make sure Jon eats something that isn't beer," Ned called as he left the apartment.

Winterfell was only eight blocks away, so Ned walked the rest of the way, enjoying the mid-afternoon sunshine. Catelyn was standing outside the main door talking on her cell phone as Ned walked up.

"No, Rickon, I am not making a lasagna for dinner tonight... I understand that you won your game and you are very hungry, but I do not have time to make a lasagna... No, I am not ordering you a whole lasagna from the Italian market either... Yes, I am very proud of you... Fine, if you can somehow talk Arya into making you a lasagna, we can have lasagna for dinner. Okay? I'll talk to you later." Cat flipped her ancient phone shut.

"Want to bet Rickon is going to get that lasagna?" Ned asked her. "One dozen chocolate covered strawberries and sex tonight says he will."

"You're on," Cat said. "But if I win, I want a massage and frozen yogurt."

"No sex?" Ned raised his eyebrows. Cat shrugged.

"Are you still mad about last night?" he asked. Frankly, he wasn't sure what part of last night made his wife angry. He was sure it wasn't justified, but she had definitely taken offense at some point last night and clearly Ned had not apologized correctly.

Catelyn didn't answer. She just walked inside. Ned sighed and decided to drop it for now.

~

Wednesday night, Ned was anxiously checking his phone like a teenager waiting for a response to a risky text. He pushed his lasagna around his plate, too nervous to eat it. Arya had produced a lasanga on Saturday night that looked like it was prepared by a catering party. They had been eating away at it for the last four days and there was still more than half of it left.

Ned checked his phone again. Nothing.

"Ned, she will call when the meeting is over. She's probably still in there," Cat called from the sink where she was washing dishes, seeming to know telepathically that Ned was glancing at his phone again. At least Catelyn didn't seem angry with him anymore.

6:47pm...that meant it was 3:47pm in L.A. The meeting was at three Pacific time. Ned reasoned that they were probably still talking.

Cat came over and cleared his plate without asking if he was done. She divided the leftover lasagna between Nymeria, Shaggy, and Summer. Arya was in her room doing homework, Rickon was at soccer practice, and Bran was out with his friend Meera.

"I had no idea Arya could cook," mused Catelyn as she transferred the leftover lasagna to a smaller pan to save some room in the fridge. "That was a pleasant surprise."

"Yeah," Ned said absently, still staring unblinkingly at the phone. He had a pretty good idea where the lasagna came from. Arya had a friend from her “dance lessons”. Gerry or Gendry or something like that. He was older. About Sansa's age. He went to culinary school. Arya often talked about him when Ned picked her up.

Just then the phone chirped. Ned practically dove out of his chair.

"Hi sweetie! How did it go?" Ned practically screamed into the phone.

"Dad? Hey, is Mom there? Can you just put me on speaker phone?" Sansa's voice had never sounded further away to Ned.

"Yeah, sure honey...okay, you're on speaker phone now."

"Oh my god, Mom, Dad, I JUST SIGNED A CONTRACT WITH FURY RECORDS! AAAHHHHH!!!!"

Summer, Nymeria, and Shaggy's heads cocked to the side as the sound traveled and Ned was very thankful that the phone was not next to his ear as his oldest daughter shrieked her happiness.

Arya poked her head out of her room and shouted, "CONGRATULATIONS, SIS. DON'T GET TOO DRUNK TONIGHT!"

"THANK YOU ARYA!" Sansa responded and Arya disappeared again.

"When do you start recording?" Catelyn asked.

"Within a month," Sansa replied. "Robert said we are going to record six covers and release them all as singles over the next few months. Depending on which ones become most popular, we will design an album of original songs around that sound."

"That's wonderful," said Ned. "What did your contract look like?"

"Robert said it was his basic package, but since I don't write original songs, we have to figure out what sort of thing we are going to get me to sing...but guys - I haven't even told you the best part yet!"

"What's that, love?" asked Cat.

"I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT WITH JOFFREY BARATHEON!"

"Oh baby, that's wonderful! Did you pack a cute outfit or are you going to need to go buy one?" Catelyn asked, seemingly unperturbed by this declaration.

Ned didn't even hear the response. His stomach had fallen to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. Sansa had a date? Sansa had a date. That's what she said. But what did that mean? Ned hadn't felt this sick Friday when she had her first show, or today when she flew out to L.A. on her own, or just a minute ago when she said she signed a contract that included a national tour next year. That only meant that she was a grown up now. But this, this was not one of the semi-supervised trips to the movie with one of the boys she went to high school with where they might have kissed a bit before one of their parents picked them up, or the prom, or a day trip to the beach. No. This was a whole new game. This was a date with a grown man across the country who also happened to be a wealthy celebrity. Ned felt like he might be sick.

_Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song by Nancy Sinatra.


	3. Gilly: Welcome To New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly gets her first job in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's K - I wrote this chapter and really feel passionately about it. There's a definite content warning (that's already in the tags, but still). If you want to avoid a rape scene/gun violence/robbery, it's towards the end of this chapter. If you want to avoid spoilers, don't read the rest of the note, but if you need to know where the violence begins: You can read up to when Gilly starts closing.

“Hi. My name is Gilly Craster. I saw your ad on Craigslist and was wondering if you’re still looking for a bartender?”

The ad that Gilly had perused on Craigslist while at the library yesterday had looked like a third grader wrote it. Gilly wasn’t one to judge, though, nor did she think she could’ve done a much better job at writing the help wanted ad. A job was a job, and one so close to her hovel of an apartment? Well, there was no beating that.

Gilly smoothed out her plain black knee-length skirt in front of the mirror. There were no wrinkles, but something about the gesture reassured her. Her blouse was simple, white, short-sleeved, and collared. She thought she looked like she was playing at being a professional. Maybe too professional for work at a bar, but it was the best outfit she owned, aside from a dress or two in the back of her closet that definitely weren’t interview appropriate.

“Hi. I saw you ad on Craigslist. Are you till looking for a bartender? My name’s Gilly.” She rolled her eyes at herself. Everything sounded unnatural. A glance at the clock on her shelf told her that the bar was just opening, so now was the time to go.

It was a short walk, maybe four blocks, to The Wall. New to New York, Gilly had never visited the place. Bars weren’t quite her style, anyway. In New Jersey, she hadn’t had very many friends to go to them with, and here, well, she didn’t know anyone. Or have the money to spend. Hence, why she was getting a job.

Gilly walked by The Wall the first time, but after walking an extra block she realized she had gone too far and turned around. It was a small place and didn’t look like much by the looks of the outside, but the neon “Open” sign in the window flickered reassuringly at her, and so she went in.

Inside, it was dark for it being so early, and quiet, too. An older man was fiddling with the Touch Tunes jukebox in the wall. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just use the old one,” he grumbled to himself.

Already, there was a patron slumped at a table in the back, a young man with black hair sipping a beer. He replied to the older man, “I can’t listen to any of those songs anymore. She loved them.”

The older man turned around and rolled his eyes. He was broad-shouldered, perhaps in his sixties, with a stern expression but kind eyes. Gilly’s nerves dissipated. She could handle interviewing with him, if he was the owner. “Yeah, well, The Cars Greatest Hits is better than Jason Bieber or whatever crap this thing has.” He patted the machine distastefully, then turned back to it. “What should the first song we play be?”

The boy just shrugged and resumed sipping his beer as the older man chose a song. “Play ‘Freebird’!” he chanted sarcastically at the jukebox…and then proceeded to play the song.

Over the din of LynyrdSkynyrd, Gilly decided to make her approach. The man headed behind the bar, which she walked up to. “Can I get you a drink, girl?”

Gilly shook her head, her nervousness suddenly returning. “N-no,” she said. “I’m bartender and I’m here to inquire about the Gilly position? I mean, I’m Gilly and I’m here – !”

The man met her eyes and laughed. Oh, she’d made a mess of things. “Ha! Relax, Gilly. I’m not so terrifying, am I?” He put down the glass he was wiping down, threw the rag over his shoulder, and extended his hand. She clasped it and shook it firmly. “A strong handshake. I like that.”

His warm smile calmed her. Gilly took a deep breath and continued. “Are you still hiring?”

The man nodded. “We are. I’m Mance, one of the owners. Was hoping Jeor – he’s the other owner – would be in if anyone responded to the ad. He’s more thorough with interviews.” Mance shrugged. “Me, I’ll hire you right on the spot if I like you well enough. Do you have any experience, Gilly?”

She had written a resume, but somehow it seemed silly to pull that out in this grungy little bar. “I waitressed for a catering company back in New Jersey, where I grew up,” she told Mance, her voice more confident now. “And I know how to use a cash register. I took an online course in bartending.” She neglected to mention that it was free and entirely YouTube based and that she’d done the entirety of her watching in the library, where she couldn’t exactly practice making the drinks.

Mance nodded. “Well, you don’t exactly need your bartender’s license to work here. A little experience is good enough to get started, and you’ll learn as you go along.” He nodded at the boy in the corner. “Most of our customers are pretty simple – beer, gin and tonic, whiskey.” He grabbed the towel from his shoulder and started using it to wipe down the bar. It looked fairly clean to Gilly, though the floor was a little sticky and she could even see in the dimness that some of the bottles on the bar were layered in dust. “How much work are you looking for?”

“Whatever you’ll give me,” Gilly said, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate.

Mance considered her answer. “Well, it rarely gets too busy here. Jeor and I can manage it for the most part, but we’re not exactly young anymore. The old man wants to partially retire soon, and I can’t do it all on my own. What about thirty to start with and we can see how things go?”

To be honest, Gilly was hoping for forty or more. But she could keep looking for another part time job, or work very hard and prove herself so that she got more hours. She planned on doing both. “That would be wonderful,” she insisted.

Mance nodded and smiled. “Great. So, how about you start Tuesday night at seven? Happy hour’ll be over, so things slow down. Perfect time to learn the ropes.”

Gilly nodded, excited. She had the job! She really, finally had a job. “I’ll be there!”

“Just wear whatever’s comfortable,” Mance said, looking her up and down. “No need to get fancy. Maybe jeans, T-shirt… No sweats, that’s all I ask. And none of those… What are they, Jon?” he called over to the boy, who was gesturing that he wanted another beer now. Mance opened one up, then gave it to Gilly to pass over. “Yoga pants?”

Jon just grunted as he took the beer from Gilly. Mance rolled his eyes, murmuring for her ears only, “Christ, if you said that to him a year ago, he would’ve given you a whole lecture on how those things are a blessing to mankind.” Not the nosy type, Gilly didn’t press the conversation, though she wondered what had made Jon so quiet, so down in the dumps. “Want a beer while you’re here? A cocktail?”

Gilly didn’t think it would be professional to stay and have a drink, but apparently Mance felt differently. “You know what, why don’t you come back here and make us a mixed drink. Put those bartending skills to use.”

 _Oh no_ , was Gilly’s immediate gut reaction, but she walked around the bar and stood next to Mance anyway. She was pleased when he surprised her by giving her space, though, and heading back to the jukebox to put on another song. The nearly ten-minute long album version of “Freebird” had just (finally) ended.

For being such a simple place, Mance and Jeor did have a decent stock at The Wall. Fruit garnishes were lined up neatly in their respective compartments. Glancing over at Jon, brooding now over what appeared to be his third beer (and the bar had just opened!), Gilly suddenly had an idea. She was going to make that boy smile before she left if it was the last thing she did.

Cranberry juice, vodka, triple sec, lime juice. They had all of the ingredients necessary. Pouring enough for just one serving into the martini shaker, she prepared the ingredients with somewhat shaky hands. Hopefully, Mance had a sense of humor. He seemed to from the yoga pants comment. When she was finished, she strained the ingredients into a martini glass, threw a cherry into the bottom so that the stem stood in a way that was aesthetically pleasing, and added a splash of Sprite to make the drink sparkle and go from deep pink to a light, pastel color. She set her altered Cosmo onto a tray, then reached into the small fridge behind her, grabbed a Miller High Life, and popped it open, placing that on the tray as well.

By now, Mance had selected his song and was sitting with Jon while glancing down at his flip phone. Gilly sauntered up to the pair, tray held aloft. She placed the Cosmopolitan in front of Mance sweetly, then sat down, joining them, and took a sip of her beer, watching Jon to gauge his reaction. The boy smirked, then glanced over at Gilly. She flashed him a smile and put her finger to her lips, and that’s when it happened. He _smiled_.

Mance pocketed his phone and let out a sigh. When he saw the drink in front of him, he was taken aback. He lifted it, though, saying, “Cheers to your new job” to Gilly. When he went to clink glasses with her, the surprise really set in. “And you’re drinking a bloody beer!” Mance laughed, Gilly laughed, and Jon… Jon chuckled. He actually chuckled.

Mance took notice right away, of course. Startled, he stopped laughing for a moment, but continued after he took the first sip of his cocktail. Over the rim of his glass, he met Gilly’s eyes, and the gratitude in his expression at seeing Jon laugh was evident.

Gilly had a feeling that she would like working at The Wall… And maybe, just maybe, they would like her here, too.

~

“Can I get another PBR?”

“Sure thing.”

“Two shots of whiskey!”

“On it.”

Gilly didn’t so much as sigh as she went about her work, cracking open a beer can from the fridge. She slid it to the customer and then took his money. On the way back to him from change, she also deftly carried two shots of house whiskey, which she passed to a middle-aged couple nearby. They had a tab running.

Work at The Wall was going well. Actually, it was going splendidly. Gilly smiled affectionately over at Mance and Jeor as they laughed and talked with various customers, stepping in to help out with bartending or cleaning things up now and then. She’d only known them for a few short weeks, but already they sort of felt like father figures to her. Sure, they didn’t talk to her too much aside from work-related issues, but that was more than her real father had ever done for her.

Gilly liked everything about The Wall, and what she didn’t like, she changed as subtly as possible whenever she could. She liked Pyp and Grenn, two boys around her age who worked in the kitchen, which was open usually from around three or four in the afternoon until midnight. The times were never consistent, and sometimes Jeor filled in there instead. She liked the twinkle light hanging above the bar and the warped mirror behind it. She _didn’t_ like the dusty state of the bottles, but she cleaned those, and the same went for the dingy women’s room and even more disgusting men’s room. Now, everything was clean, and if it wasn’t, there was always later this evening or tomorrow afternoon to wipe things down.

Quickly, Jeor and Mance had upped her to forty hours. She’d asked them in a timid voice for the extra time, but they hadn’t pressed her as to why or dragged their feet. Instead, Jeor had updated the schedule and left it at that. She tossed the white-haired man a towel as he stepped behind the bar and he wiped down a section that had just been emptied.

And even better, just last Tuesday, without her even asking for more pay, Gilly had been given a raise. She’d been so nervous when Mance had called her into the small office in the back, worried she’d screwed something up already in her short time here. Had she given a customer the wrong change? Did Mance know about how she’d forgotten to check two IDs last weekend? A bouncer would help on Fridays or Saturdays, but she was entirely to blame.

In the small, cramped office – a room entirely occupied by a chair-less desk and a ridiculously large, antiquated safe – Mance had simply smiled at her. “You’re doing great, Gilly,” he said. “What do you think about being promoted to keyholder?”

“That’s an awful lot of responsibility,” she’d admitted, more nervous than angling.

Mance had shrugged. “It’ll come with a raise, of course. Say… Three dollars an hour?”

The raise was generous, and Gilly was doing well for herself now. Already she’d started to furnish her apartment, adding a set of twinkle lights reminiscent to those at The Wall right above her bed.

Presently, things were starting to slow down. Soon, Grenn left – Pyp was off tonight – and Mance did, too. Even Jon was gone, though he’d been spending a little less time in the bar, lately. As much as Gilly liked him and wanted The Wall to have patrons, she was happy thinking that maybe he was cleaning himself up – though he was still in for at least three beers, if not shots of cheap vodka or whiskey, every day. Her favorite challenge of the day was getting him to smile. She often succeeded.

Once the amount of customers had dwindled down to five, which, in itself, was about half of what The Wall boasted on a “busy” night, Jeor yawned and said goodbye to Gilly. “You can call me if things pick up,” he told her, “but last call is soon, anyway.” The bar closed at two tonight, and it was just going on quarter after one.

Gilly waved goodbye to her boss and began closing shop while simultaneously waiting on her customers. At last call, she rolled her eyes at the heavy drinkers who began double fisting. Sure, The Wall didn’t get a lot of business, but the regulars seemed to enjoy their fair share of cheep liquor, cheaper beer, cheese fries, and pre-frozen appetizers.

Soon it was a little after two, and the last customer was leaving. He shuffled blindly out as Gilly called, “You get home safe, now.” She wondered, sometimes, if people had anywhere else to go, anything else to spend their money on. The thought wasn’t judgmental. It was sad.

As she took the money out of the register to bring in the back, she heard the bell on the front door jingle. _Damn. I forgot to lock the door_ , Gilly thought to herself. After the customers left, she was supposed to lock it, turn off the sign, finish cleaning up any major messes, toss the trash outside, count the money, and put it in the safe. This was the second time she’d forgotten to lock the door first. The first time, it was just Mance, but he hadn’t reprimanded her. He’d just told her, “You don’t want any drunks wandering in, taking up your time at two in the morning. After everyone leaves, get the hell out of dodge.” He’d winked playfully at her, grabbed the jacket he had returned for, then helped her close up.

Expecting to see a one of the drunks Mance had warned her about, Gilly turned on her heel, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” she said, the money still in her hand.

But when she looked up from the pile of cash, she froze. It wasn’t a drunk in front of her, or if it was, he appeared remarkably sober, if a bit agitated. It was a man in a ski mask with a pistol pointed directly at her. “Give me the money,” he said, his voice softer than it was in the movies. Softer than it had been when they convenience store she’d worked at in Jersey had been robbed. She’d been held at gunpoint then, though she later learned it was a fake gun. A toy bought down the shore.

Trembling, Gilly handed the money over to the man. He stuffed it in an open backpack slung across his front. She glanced at it, trying to take in some helpful detail, but it was black. JanSport. There were thousands of others like it all over the city.

“Lock the fucking door,” he told her, his voice still level. For a split second, Gilly thought he was just reprimanding her for her carelessness, and she just nodded, standing there with her hands raised on instinct, palms facing her assailant. “I said,” he repeated, and then his voice rose – now he was yelling, “LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR!”

“O-okay!” she cried out, really, truly terrified now. The shock had worn off. She fumbled in her pocket for the keys, taking care not to drop them, too scared to think about how the man would react if she did. Trembling, she walked towards the door as the man followed her with his gun.

“Wait,” he demanded, startling her. “Give me the keys instead.” Gilly complied, realizing that he didn’t want her to jolt out the door the second they got there. This was probably his first robbery, if he’d just thought of that possibility now. Truth be told, the idea hadn’t even occurred to Gilly, though in the moment, it would have. Now that the opportunity was lost to her, though, she let out a tiny sob.

It only took him a few seconds to cross the room, lock the door, and return to her, eyes and gun trained on her whenever possible. There was no time to look around for a weapon and her cell phone was in the office, the landline yards away at the opposite end of the bar. _It’s a robbery_ , she told herself. _It’s like it was at the convenience store. You don’t do anything rash. You do what he says. And you look at him._ She spent those seconds doing just that, looking at the man. But he was so frustratingly nondescript, neither tall nor short, dressed in all black, not fat or muscular or particularly slight. His eyes were dark, but indistinguishable in the dim lighting. His hair was hidden. His gloved hands, which had grazed her fingers upon exchanging the key, had five fingers apiece.

“Take me to the safe,” the masked man demanded once the door was locked.

Gilly nodded, scrambling towards the back room. He’d clearly wanted to lock the door so no one could come in while they were in the back. “Th-there’s no money in it,” she stammered once they got to the office.

“Yeah fucking right. We’ll see about that.” She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she could hear the sneer in his voice. He didn’t have an accent. Not even a New York one. The gun aimed at her head, Gilly had no choice but to sink to the ground, her heart racing.

There wasn’t any money in the safe. That had been the convenience store robber’s mistake. There, no one was allowed to have more than a thousand bucks in the registers. He’d robbed all four and only make it would with two grand, not thinking to try the back room. At The Wall, the robber probably had about half that amount in his backpack right now. In the morning, Gilly would have deposited that money, leaving the safe empty except for a hundred dollars in change to get them through until the next day. But the change wasn’t in there today. Jeor and Mance had “paid themselves” with it earlier, taking it out to buy weed or something stupid.

“Hurry up,” the man insisted, glancing nervously behind him. At least he was frightened, too, Gilly thought. She took her time with the tumble-lock despite his demand that she speed things up. The last thing she wanted to do was make a mistake and have to start all over again and spend another minute with the robber.

Finally, Gilly opened the safe. It was, predictably, empty. She stood, her hands raised again to show that she wasn’t pulling anything. “It’s empty,” she insisted. “Like I said.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man growled. He yanked the backpack off of his chest and tossed it haphazardly on the ground. A section of it was still open, and two dollar notes landed on the linoleum floor. “You’re gonna fucking pay for this, bitch,” he growled.

Gilly didn’t have time to process what was going on. Suddenly, he’d grabbed her by both wrists and twisted her around. The gun wasn’t in his grasp, but nowhere in her line of vision. Despite the fact that time moved inordinately slow as the man pushed her onto the desk, she had no idea how he’d managed to yank her in that position. He had a gun and he was stronger than her, and there was no use fighting as he pushed up her plain brown sundress, one that she’d picked out with care at a TJ Maxx just three days before. He kicked her legs apart and she heard the unzipping of his pants, sounding more like a record screeching to a halt than anything else. He’d wiped the desk clean, somehow, when pushing her on it, so there was nothing to grasp, nothing to turn around and slam into his face. There were only her nails, which she pushed painfully into her palms. There was nothing to bite down hard on as he entered her. Just her lips, which were bleeding by the time he was through.

The next five minutes were all a jumbled mess. In the days to come, she would remember them in flashes – the man demanding that she give him her cell phone, laughing at how outdated it was, and crushing it beneath his shoe instead of stealing it. The man leaving – she was suddenly in the bar again, not the office, though she had no idea how she got there. The twinkle lights were still on. He fumbled with the lock on the way out, but this time, it gave Gilly no pleasure to know that he was frightened, too.

The feel of the phone in her hand, the chord wrapped around her fingers. She twirled at it absent-mindedly, like she’d done on the phone in her parents’ kitchen talking to her crush in the eighth grade. “911. What’s your emergency?”

“The bar I work at. We’ve just been robbed.”

“What’s your location?”

“The Wall." She rattled off the address. "There wasn’t any money in the safe. He was angry. He…”

“Ma’am? Emergency personnel are on their way. Are you injured?”

She started down at her pale, bare legs. There wasn’t blood there, but she felt there should be. “N-no. But he… He raped me.”

“Is there anyone there with you?”

Gilly bit her lip. The blood began to pour from it again, dripping onto her chin in a thin rivulet. “No,” she stated, glancing up at the yellow-white lights above the bar, at the reflection of a bloody-lipped girl in the old warped mirror. “No,” she said. “It’s me. Just me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was difficult writing about a touchy subject, but as a victim myself, also empowering. Let me know what you think.


	4. Joffrey: King of Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey Baratheon has it hard. He's surrounded by dumb sluts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E writes Joff. :)

_Hey! My dad mentioned that you were flying back to L.A. in two days to start recording. How about I take you out for a tour of the city on Saturday?_

_Hmm...well since your father hasn't made me a famous celebrity (yet), I'll be free this Saturday._

_What are you saying? You won't have time for me once you make the top 40 list?_

_That's something you will have to ask my personal assistant...once I hire one, that is._

_Guess I better make the most of Saturday then...no telling when I'll see you again after that._

This bitch was already assuming she would have instant success. What an idiot. Sure, she was hot. Like really hot. But that didn't mean her remixed shit was going to sell. Anyone could cover a song.

So why was he still talking to her?

Well, she was hot.

~

Joffrey had taken Sansa out a few weeks before when she had first come out to L.A. She had been a fun time. Like a good fangirl she had known all about him, but had still wanted to listen to him. Their dinner at le Bistro Chic had lasted nearly four hours. When they finally ran out of excuses to remain at the table, they had moved to the bar.

Although Sansa was only nineteen and Joffrey was barely twenty, neither were carded and both were served. One of the many perks of being a global celebrity. Everyone knew exactly how old you were and absolutely no one cared.

The night was going so smoothly, Joff was positive that a few smooth lines could get Sansa naked in the back of his limo on the way home.

That was, until she accidently spilled her wine on him.

"What the fuck? You IDIOT!" he shouted, arms thrown back as he stared in disbelief at his Armani shirt.

"I'm...I'm so...sorry," she stuttered, completely taken aback by his outburst.

Joff then realized the people around them had all gone silent and were staring.

"Apology accepted," he quickly smiled at her and said, "I was caught off guard, that's all. I've had a bit much to drink."

"So have I," she agreed, smiling back.

"What do you say we get out of here?" he asked, placing his hand on the small of her back and looking deeply in her eyes as he waved at the bartender. Well, as deep as a shallow creep such as he could manage.

Was it just his wine soaked brain? Or did Sansa audibly gulp? Did girls really do that?

"Sure," she replied as she nodded a bit harder than necessary.

If Joffrey had counted correctly, there had been close to six professional paparazzi shots taken of the two of them while they were in the restaurant. A bit high, in Joff's opinion. He would remember the lax security at le Bistro Chic and make sure not to come here again, but for tonight, that would suit him fine. Joff wanted to start the rumor mill and get a buzz going about him and Sansa before she released her first single. He had looked up her YouTube videos before he met her for dinner and he knew she had the it factor. Now it was a matter of creating a fan base for her, and Joff could certainly help with that.

Besides, if it was well documented that he and Sansa were an item _before_ she was famous, well then, everybody would know how kind and encouraging Joff was to little nobodies who wanted to follow their dreams.

And if she never amounted to anything, well then it was clearly just Joff being a sweetheart and showing his family friend the sights while she was in town. No matter what, it was a win-win for Joffrey.

Not to mention, Sansa was hot. Sleeping with her would just be a bonus for him.

The limo ride back to Sansa's hotel was close to half an hour. Joff waited until the last five of those minutes to lean in and kiss her.

He had looked into her eyes, and gently held her chin with his thumb and forefinger. He gave it a moment. She didn't pull away. Then she smiled. He leaned in.

Timid at first, she quickly warmed up. Joffrey was a bit surprised at her aggressiveness. Usually the girls he kissed surrendered to him. Not Sansa. She acted like she had made the first move. Joff, strangely enough, did not mind this. She was essentially doing the work for him.

Joff wasn't sure if Sansa climbed across the seat to straddle him or if he pulled her into his lap. Either way, she wasn't fighting it. In fact, she was grinding against him a bit as she leaned down over him while he kissed her neck.

Perfect.

He cupped her cheek and pulled her head down for a long, slow kiss on the lips. He let that hand drift from her cheek, down the side of her neck, tracing her collarbone, one finger trailing down her chest, between her breasts.

Never making an obvious grab or play for an overtly sexual part of her body, Joff allowed Sansa to seduce herself with his minimal participation.

"We're here," came a gruff voice from the front of the limo.

"Sandor," Joffrey growled.

"We've been sitting here for ten minutes," Joffrey's bodyguard/driver griped. Like he'd never been in this situation before.

"So play Candy Crush." Joff annunciated each word through his gritted teeth.

"That's ok," Sansa said as she climbed off Joffrey's lap, "I should get going anyway, I have to fly back tomorrow."

No. She was not about to just leave.

"Are you sure?" Joff asked as he leaned in and kissed her again.

"I need to go upstairs now," Sansa replied in between kisses, half of which she was initiating. She wasn't off the hook yet!

"I could go with you," Joffrey offered.

"That sounds like a-" Sansa was abruptly cut off as her phone started ringing. She glanced down to read the screen. Joff read the name _Jeyne_ ♡.

"Excuse me," she said, "I need to take this. Thank you for a lovely evening." She kissed Joff once more on the cheek and scooted out of the limo as she picked up the call. Joff rounded on his driver.

"You fucking cockblock. If your face wasn't already destroyed, I would beat the shit out of you, you goddam freak."

Sandor had only grunted in response as he pulled the limo away from the curb.

~

"Joffrey has a girlfriend!" Myrcella squealed in a sing-songy voice as she bounced about the kitchen of the Baratheon family mansion.

"What?" his mother asked, head whipping around to stare at her oldest son.

"No," Joff replied icily as he sipped his vitamin water.

Although she was in her mid to late forties, Cersei still looked like a model. Which is, in fact, what she was for years. Joffrey's grandfather, Tywin Lannister, was old money. Although his family fortune was originally from tobacco, Tywin had made a name for himself as a producer in Hollywood. His three children could have lived contentedly their whole lives simply being heirs to a fortune, but Cersei, being born beautiful, decided to become a model so she could be both rich and famous. Yes, her motivation had been that shallow.

"Myrcella, darling, what are you talking about?" Cersei asked her sixteen year old daughter, rather than argue with her twenty year old son.

In response, Myrcella opened the People magazine she had in her hand, flipped to the page she was looking for, and tossed it to Cersei, narrowly missing her grapefruit. Smiling wickedly at Joff, she turned and ran out of the room, leaving her brother alone with their mom.

Cersi looked at the large photo dominating one half of the page showing her son in a restaurant with a beautiful girl around his age she was laughing, he was smiling. The caption read, 'Does the Prince of Pop, Joffrey Baratheon have a new main squeeze? He was spotted having a great time at le Bistro Chic with an unknown woman on March 16th.'

Cersei turned to her son with a stern expression. "Explain," she commanded.

"It's Sansa Stark, mother. Dad signed her last month? Don't you remember him going on and on about her? He made us watch her YouTube videos?"

In truth, Cersei usually tuned out everything Robert said these days. Joff knew that, but he wasn't about to get in trouble for something she could have known about if she had paid more attention to his father.

Cersei and Robert could not have been more ill-suited for each other. He was a business-savvy workaholic who didn't care about what he ate or drank and what havoc it wreaked on his body Robert liked loud clubs and music, he liked hunting and talking and drinking. His mother, on the other hand, was a beautiful, health-conscious mom-ager. Cersei's entire world revolved around her family, and more specifically, her children. Cersei and Robert had met in the 80's when Cersei had been cast in a music video for one of the first musicians Robert had signed. Cersei's fiancé had recently left her for some skanky actress and she was in a bad place when Robert, the then young and attractive and successful talent manager, asked her on a date. Three whirlwind months later, they were married and Cersei was expecting Joff.

Joffrey understood his mother as a person. He also understood his father as a person. He loved them both equally, but selfishly. As much as he understood that they were terrible for each other, he desperately hoped they wouldn't get divorced. He couldn't imagine what that would do to him.

Cersei made a _hmm_ noise as she looked back at the magazine.

"She's very pretty," Cersei observed.

"Yeah," Joff agreed, going back to his coffee.

"You know," Cersei hemmed as she dug out her grapefruit with a spoon, "if you play this correctly, it could really help your public image."

"Way ahead of you, Mom," Joffrey replied as he picked up his coffee, ready to leave the kitchen, already bored with this conversation.

As he was walking out the door, Myrcella was coming back in.

"I'll get you back for this, you dumb slut," he hissed as he passed her.

"MOM!" she shouted. Cersei turned to her. "Did you hear what he said to me?"

"What did he say to you?" Robert asked as he rolled into the kitchen from the other end of the house.

"He called me a 'dumb slut', Daddy!" Myrcella replied, shooting Joffrey a nasty look.

"Joff, that was uncalled for, don't you think?" Robert asked.

"Yeah, Joff," Myrcella said, "I work way more than you. If anything, you're the slut, staying here and not contributing." Myrcella was an actress who played the teenage daughter on ABC's highest rated sitcom.

"Working or not, I still made more money than you did last year," Joff shot back, turning to his father for backup.

"That's true," Robert conceded as he pulled his head out of the fridge. "No bacon?" he asked Cersei, who ignored him.

"How is that even possible?" Myrcella cried. "You've been on 'hiatus' for over a year now!"

"Royalties, residuals, my last album is still selling internationally. You do the math, you stupid bitch."

"I hate you!" Myrcella screamed as she stormed out of the kitchen. Robert cuffed Joff on the head. Not very hard, but enough that Joff winced a bit.

"Don't speak to your sister like that," Robert admonished.

Cersei abandoned her grapefruit with a sigh and stalked after her daughter, leaving Joff in the kitchen with Robert.

"Hey," Robert said, noticing the magazine on the counter. "Did you go on a date with Sansa Stark?"

"Yeah, I ran into her at the offices the day she met with you. She's..." Joff searched for an appropriate word. He had a feeling his father wouldn't take kindly to him declaring that he wanted to sleep with Sansa. He settled for "sweet."

"She certainly is," Robert agreed, popping a bagel in the toaster. "Are you going to see her again?"

"Yeah. Probably in like three days." Joffrey heard a door slam down the hall. Presumably Myrcella didn't want to talk to Cersei anymore.

"Cool," Robert said as he loaded a bowl with cocoa puffs. "You know, Joff, Myrcella has a point. You've been on hiatus for over a year. Unless you are planning on a career change, I think you need to stage your comeback."

"Dad, we agreed that I wouldn't stage a comeback until we find a songwriter who doesn't write strictly sappy love songs."

"That's your niche, baby," Cersei said as she reentered the kitchen.

"I don't care, Mom. I want to branch out."

"I agree with Joff," Robert said as he slathered his bagel with cream cheese. "If he wants to expand his fan base, he needs to branch out a bit."

"This is just puberty talking," Cersei argued.

"Mom, I'm not going through puberty anymore," Joff hissed.

Cersei said nothing as she continued to eat her grapefruit.

"I'll interview some writers this week," Robert decided.

~

Four days later, Joff's car pulled up to the house Robert had rented for Sansa to stay in for the few months she would be living in L.A. while recording her first few singles.

As he was stepping out of the back of the car, Sandor turned his heavily scarred face to him.

"Here," Sandor said, shoving a single peach colored rose at Joff.

"I didn't know you wanted to get in my pants, Sandy," Joff frowned at his driver/bodyguard.

Sandor snorted. "Not for you, dummy. For her. Give it to her. Make it look like you got it for her."

"Worried about my game?" Joff asked him.

"Well you did such a spectacular job getting invited upstairs last time that I have to admit I am a bit concerned," Sandor conceded.

"Fuck you," Joff spat as he slammed the car door. He did take the rose with him though.

Joff was a bit early, but whatever. It wasn't like he couldn't leave his dog in the car for fifteen minutes. His dog knew how to control the air conditioning.

As he approached the front door, he could hear a bit of a conversation drifting through an open window.

"Look, I promise we will hang out later, but Joffrey will be here soon and I don't want you to be here when he gets here, so just make yourself scarce."

That was definitely Sansa's voice. Who was she talking to? Did she bring someone with her? Joffrey couldn't hear the reply. Did she have a boyfriend?

"Because I like Joffrey, and I don't think that the second time I go out with him should include my sister. It would look like you're trying to chaperone us or something."

Ah, a sister. Joff smiled a bit. Maybe if he worked this right, he could get a threesome.

Still smirking, Joffrey rang the doorbell.

"Arya, can you get that? It's probably the cable guy." Joff heard Sansa shout.

A few seconds later the door cracked open. A girl slightly younger than Sansa stood there. She didn't look like Sansa at all. She was much more slight, and way more muscled. She also had dark brown hair instead of Sansa's coppery red. She was cute in a childish way. Her eyes went wide as she realized who he was.

"I'm Joffrey, I'm here for Sansa. Who are you?" he asked with what he hoped was a politely puzzled attitude since he knew who she was, but he wasn't supposed to know.

"No one," she replied, and scampered off, leaving the door open.

Joffrey stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"Sansa!" he shouted.

"Oh my God, are you here early?" Sansa shouted from upstairs.

"Am I?" he called back.

"I'm sorry, I must be running late," she called back. "I'll be down in a minute!"

Joff had to admit that when Sansa did finally come downstairs, she looked stunning, if slightly flustered.

"You look great," he smiled, kissing her on the cheek. She blushed a bit, he noticed. He handed her the flower.

"Oh, it's lovely," she exclaimed. "Let me get some water for it."

Joff followed her into the kitchen, casually glancing into the rooms they passed. The house must have come fully furnished. No way she had the whole place decorated in two days.

Sansa stuck the rose in a tall glass of water that she placed on the windowsill.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said, taking his hand and headed the front door. "I hope Arya wasn't too rude to you. Sometimes I think she forgets how to interact with people."

"She was fine," Joff said as he held the car door open for her.

"So where are we going today?" she asked as he joined her in the car.

"Yes, where are we going?" Sandor asked from the front, turning around to face them.

Sansa audibly gasped as she took in Sandor's scarred face. Sandor glared at her wide eyes but didn't say anything.

"Sansa, this is Sandor. I thought I introduced you two on our last date," Joffrey said, a bit puzzled by her reaction.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I suppose I wasn't paying attention," Sansa stammered. Sandor's frown deepened.

"Where are we going?" he repeated.

"I thought we would see the sights. Do the touristy shit. Get Sansa used to the lay of the land," Joff replied. "Let's start with the Hollywood sign."

"Sounds great," Sansa replied, though her eyes were still wide and her smile seemed a bit forced.

Sandor wordlessley turned forward and pulled the car onto the street.


	5. Varys: I Heard It Through The Grapevine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An update appears on Varys's celebrity gossip website.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in updating! I was busy with all sorts of summer festivities. E & I try to update once a week or so. Again, my apologies.
> 
> This chapter is super short but I also think it's fun! Hope you enjoy! - K

** Prince Of Pop Dating Not-So-Nobody **

_Joff’s mysterious new redhead has perfect pop-rock pedigree._

By now, the entire world has seen photos of Joffrey Baratheon canoodling with his new sweetheart. Whether you read about his nameless new lady friend in _People_ or _Us Weekly_ or on one of those trite gossip sites that prefers the use of MS Paint to Wordpress, you’ve certainly heard the news. Yes, it seems that many a teenybopper’s heart is broken: Joff Baratheon is no longer on the market. But I’m here with the details no one else has. That nameless nobody isn’t a nobody after all – and her name is one well known to those in the music industry.

Sansa Stark is an up & comer, it seems. Sources say she’s recently been signed by Fury Records, of which Joff’s father, Robert Baratheon, is the CEO. A receptionist at Fury states, “Joff and Sansa met outside of Fury Records the day she came to sign her contract. It was love at first sight.”

But who is Sansa Stark? A recording artist in her own right, she’s the child of rock star royalty. Those in the New York club scene will recognize her father: Ned Stark, founder and owner of Winterfell. As many know, Ned married Cat Tully, who briefly took the world by storm during the eighties. Her folksy, bluesy sound and style was unique for the time, when the rest of the music industry was churning out dance ballads and hair metal hits.

Cat has a troubled history, though. After a stint in rehab, she took a step out of the limelight, seemingly for good. Does Mother worry that Daughter will follow in her shaky footstep, though? A little bird tells us that Sansa is presently staying in the Hills with her little sister as a babysitter. Her family worries that she’ll let the L.A. rock star lifestyle get to her head. Paparazzi photos already show her with Joffrey at dance nightclub Riverrun, known for their craft brews and all-night EDM ragers. Let’s ignore the fact that these two crazy kids aren’t of legal drinking age – certainly everyone else in L.A. is. Perhaps little sister Arya is exactly what Sansa needs to keep her behavior in check. She’s got the good looks of her mother. What else runs in the family?

We wish the best for Sansa and Joff. Ah, young love. Is there anything better? While we continue to learn more about this budding romance, keep your ears tuned. It’s rumored the two are recording together for Sansa’s upcoming album. What exactly her sound is, though, we can’t be sure. Her YouTube profile, SansaStark, is full of covers from many genres. She’s certainly a songbird.

** Other Up & Comers **

While Sansa Stark’s blossoming dating life and music career are certainly of interest, be sure to check out these other up and coming artists:

_We heard her first! Dany Targaryen, daughter of 80’s metal band Fire & Blood members Aerys and Rhae Targaryen, has been performing pop-up concerts across the city. Her following is small, but her versatile sound is certainly drawing more and more interest._

_The #1 Alternative song on Billboard this week? Ramsay Bolton came out of nowhere with “Throat Punch”. We’re not sure exactly who Ramsay is, but he knows how to rock._

 

Stay tuned for more updates on the music industry. Have any hot gossip? Submit here. We love our little birds and take our contributions seriously. I could not do this without you.

 

**Comments**

_MetalHead7_ : Ahhh!! Ramsay is the SHIT. Excited to hear a girl rocker, tho. And Joff sucks. Pop music is the worst nowadays.

_PrincessM_ : Uhh, Joff is definitely NOT single, but not because of Whats-Her-Face Stark. He’s dating ME.

_Braav0si_ : Sansa is gorgeous  & Joff/Sansa are #relationshipgoals.

_TheseCrowsAintLoyal_ : Been subscribed to Sansa on YouTube since Day 1. She deserves this.

_Jeynexo_ : @SansaStark you’ve made it onto “A Little Bird” !!!!!!

_H0d0r_ : hodor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people checked in to ask where the update was, and that meant so much to both of us. We love knowing that people are excited to read this story, and we are certainly excited to write it. Stay tuned for an update much sooner than last time. - K


	6. Jeor: Janie's Got a Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeor and Mance sorely miss having Gilly at The Wall. The two do their best to take care of their favorite employee in the aftermath of her attack.

"Do you think we're starting to annoy her?" Jeor asked Mance in the stairwell on the way up to Gilly's apartment. They had been to see her every day since the attack.

"I doubt it. It's not like anyone else is checking in on her. Besides, we stopped sleeping over," Mance replied. For the first week after Gilly came home, Jeor and Mance had taken turns sleeping on Gilly's couch. Neither of them wanted her to be alone in case she needed anything. Even if it was only reassurance after a nightmare.

However, within ten days, Gilly had told them not to sleep over anymore. Apparently, Jeor slept like a bear and Mance barely slept at all. He would continuously pace and wander or stare into the open fridge for twenty minutes at a time. Gilly had decided she needed her space back.

They had a key to Gilly's apartment now, but they still knocked as they turned the doorknob. Just in case she was naked or something.

"Gilly," Mance called, as they entered her two-room apartment, "we have lunch!"

"Good," they heard her call from the bedroom. "I'm starving!"

Jeor plopped the bag of Chinese takeout on the small dining table Gilly had in a corner while Mance wandered into the kitchen to put the casserole he made into the fridge.

"Another casserole?" Gilly asked as she wandered into the living room/kitchen/dining room.

"Yup," Mance beamed proudly as he tore open the bag of takeout. "Gilly, did you get the chow mein?"

"Nope, I was the pork dumplings and the vegetarian lo mein."

"I had the chow mein," Jeor volunteered.

As they were tearing into their lunch, Jeor observed Gilly. She seemed less aloof than she had been in the past three weeks. Not exactly happier, but definitely more engaged in what was going on around her.

The first few days had been awful. In between hours of silence and Gilly staring at a spot on the wall for hours on end, she would have bouts of uncontrollable tears. She didn't want to be touched or consoled. Jeor couldn't blame her. He had no idea how to relate to her. As an older white male, he couldn't begin to imagine what it felt like to be violated in that way. To feel totally powerless at the hands of someone else. Jeor had tried to imagine how that would feel. He had sat during some of those long hours of silence with Gilly just trying to understand what she was going through. He was pretty sure that anything he came up with fell painfully short of the real thing.

"So Mance," Gilly started, "I know I'm eating right now and probably shouldn't be thinking about dinner just yet, but what kind of casserole did you make this time?"

"It's technically enchiladas, I guess," Mance replied through a mouthful of miso soup. “I can't believe I didn't discover Pinterest sooner."

"Quite frankly, I'm glad you didn't discover it sooner," Jeor grunted. "Gilly, you should see what he's done to The Wall. He's using old rakes as wine glass holders. When the fuck did we even get wine glasses?"

"I'm just trying to make the place a little more classy," Mance sniffed.

"By making it look like a barn?" Jeor asked incredulously.

"It's called repurposing. It's socially and environmentally responsible. And it adds an eclectic feel to the place." Mance replied.

"There are farming tools hanging on the walls!" Jeor roared.

"You're just mad because you didn't think of it first," Mance retorted.

"You two are such a typical couple," Gilly cut in.

Jeor's mouth fell open, allowing a piece of broccoli to fall out. Mance started choking. Gilly glanced back and forth from one to the other.

"Are you not a couple?" she asked carefully.

"No!" they bellowed in unison.

"Oh," Gilly blushed. "I just assumed since you live together, you own a bar together, you don't ever hit on any women, not that there are ever many women at The Wall, and you fight like a married couple, you had man-candy like Jon Snow playing at your bar..."

"Dear God, Jeor, what have we become?"

"A couple, apparently. Look, Gill, Mance and I used to be strictly business partners. We worked together at this old dive called The Nightfort. When the owner decided to retire, Mance and I bought it from him and renamed it The Wall. I was married at the time to a woman named Margaret-"

"Fucking bitch," Mance cut in.

"-who wasn't exactly faithful. But I was blissfully unaware. I had plenty to keep me occupied. The thing is, when you own a bar, it's basically a lifestyle, not just a job. It's almost like you give up everything else. Wife, kids, house, et cetera. Anyway, then Mance here ran off with my wife about two years after we opened."

Mance shot Jeor an apologetic look.

"So naturally when the divorce papers showed up, I signed them without thinking. Mance and Margaret got married and I was happy to just be alone with my bar. My son, Jorah, wasn't too happy about his mother leaving, and he rebelled a lot, but I never stopped him from chasing his dreams of being a roadie. He's now working for Dany Targaryen."

"Wow, really?" said Mance. "When did that happen?"

"About three weeks ago. I didn't want to make it out to be more important than Gilly though...Anyway, long story short, seven years later, Mance and Margaret were divorced and Mance came back to The Wall. And here we are today."

"And we both hate Margaret," Mance added.

"We both hate Margaret," Jeor agreed.

"I'm actually really impressed that you two managed to remain friends after all that. It can't only be mutual hatred of Margaret that keeps you two together," Gilly mused as she polished off the last dumpling.

Mance and Jeor glanced at each other before Jeor volunteered, "At first it was Margaret that drove us together. But then we both discovered that we both really like beer."

"And weed," Mance added.

"And weed," Jeor agreed.

Mance got up to start cleaning up their lunch. Jeor started packing the leftovers up. Gilly actually smiled watching them wait on her. Jeor was pretty sure no one had been this attentive to her in a while. He knew she didn't have a boyfriend, but he wondered what her family situation was like.

"Hey Gilly," Jeor hedged, "not to be indelicate, but when do ya think you might be coming back to work?"

Gilly's smile vanished instantly and her face began to pale. She began to wring her hands.

"Oh, um, Jeor, you see...the thing is...I hadn't really...well, I hadn't really planned on uhm...well, you know-"

Jeor cut her off. "You weren't planning to come back."

Gilly stared at her folded hands on the table as she said, "No, not really."

"Is it because you're scared? Or is it because you want to move on?" Jeor asked gently.

"I'm scared," Gilly whispered.

"Okay," Jeor answered, covering her hands lightly with one of his big ones. "You see the thing is, Gill, we really liked having you at The Wall. You're the best employee we've ever had...Don't tell Jon this, but Ygritte was awful. All she wanted to do was make kissy faces at Jon and glare at anyone who looked at him too long."

Gilly chuckled a bit.

"Anyway, Gilly, if you really wanted to move on, I would want you to as well. I wouldn't ask you to stay somewhere that won't give you a future. But if this is because you're scared, then I have to make sure that you come back. Because if you're scared and you go somewhere else, you're going to be scared there too. If you come back to The Wall, Mance and I promise, we will never leave you alone to close up by yourself again. We will never leave you alone, period. I know we didn't offer you health insurance since you were part-time, but we will pay for any therapy, doctor's appointments, new dead-bolt locks, anything that will help you...oh, that reminds me," Jeor exclaimed as he hopped up and ran to grab a package by the door. Gilly hadn't even noticed it was there. It was smaller than a shoebox.

Jeor scurried back to the table and opened the box. Inside were a bunch of pieces of metal. Jeor started picking them up and locking them together like a puzzle.

"Oh my god, is that a gun?" Gilly squealed, pushing her chair back from the table a bit.

"Yeah," Jeor replied excitedly. "I got it for you."

"Uh, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," Gilly squeaked.

"Oh, don't worry, I didn't even get you any ammo," Jeor soothed. "It's strictly for appearances. I thought we would leave it at the bar by the register. That way you have it if you need to scare someone off. Although if you would rather have it here with you, that's fine."

"No, no, by the register is fine," Gilly said in a tone that made Jeor doubt that she would ever actually touch the gun.

Jeor put the gun back in its box and he and Mance got ready to leave.

"Cook the enchiladas at 350 for twenty-five minutes," Mance instructed Gilly as he hugged her. "Then call Jeor and tell him when you're coming back," he whispered in her ear.

"If you need anything, Gill, I'm only a phone call away," Jeor said as they walked out.

"Thank you," Gilly said sincerely.

Mance and Jeor wandered out into the early afternoon sunshine in relative silence. Jeor wasn't sure about Mance, but he was bound and determined to get Gilly back. She was a treasure, and she was not to be squandered. She managed to make Jon laugh. He couldn't help but feel that this whole situation was largely his fault. He really should have better security at his bar. Why hadn't they established a buddy system yet? No one should be closing alone. That was just way too easy to steal money. Not that he suspected Mance or Gilly. He supposed he trusted his employees too much to remember that buddy systems were also for security reasons.

From Gilly's window, you were actually able to see The Wall. Gilly wasn't about to get a better commute with any job she might find. Not to mention she would be wasted as a secretary or a nanny. Jeor wasn't sure if she had a degree or even a GED. She seemed smart enough, but that didn't mean anything these days.

"Do we still have our two o'clock appointment?" Mance asked.

"Yeah," said Jeor, glancing at his wristwatch. 1:38. "We should probably book it."

The two men picked up their pace. Five blocks later, they arrived at a nondescript office front. The plaque on the door read 'Tarth and Payne'. Mance hit the buzzer. A second later they heard the lock on the door make a _chunk_ sound.

A young man in his early twenties stood there. "C'mon in," he said cheerily, locking the door again behind him. "You must be Mr. Rayder and Mr. Mormont." They stood in a narrow hallway. No windows on either side. No doors, either. The young man started down the hallway towards the open door at the end.

"I'm Podrick, by the way," he said over his shoulder. Through the door was a large, comfortable study. There was a fireplace in the wall on the right side, and the wall opposite the door was composed entirely of large windows letting lots of natural light in. The other three walls were covered by built in bookcases. A spiral staircase in one corner led upstairs to a loft. An old wooden desk with neatly stacked files sat to the left. There was a well-worn leather sofa and two matching chairs before the fire. In one of those chairs sat a very tall blonde woman. She looked strict and imposing the way a nun or a principal would.

"This is Brienne Tarth." Podrick introduced her as she stood up and Jeor realized he had underestimated how tall she was.

"We know each other, actually," Brienne informed Podrick.

"Oh," Podrick seemed a bit surprised.

"Mr. Mormont was my next door neighbor while I was growing up," Brienne informed Podrick.

"It's nice to see you again, Brie," Jeor smiled.

"I don't think anyone's called me Brie since I enrolled in the police academy," Brienne laughed. She shook Mance and Jeor's hands and beckoned them to sit on the couch.

"What brings you in?" she asked. "Does this have anything to do with that robbery a few weeks ago at The Wall? I thought the police were on that."

"They are," Mance replied. "In the way police are on anything that isn't a homicide. They will get to it eventually."

Brienne frowned. Jeor knew she still thought highly of her brothers in blue.

"Look, Brie, we wanted to hire you to find the guy before the cops did. You see, he raped our waitress," Jeor noticed Podrick's jaw tighten and his fists clench as he said that last bit. Brienne's face, as always, remained impassive. He continued, "She's in a bad way now and we were hoping you could catch him so we could bring him to the fullest extent of the law. The girl isn't going to feel safe anywhere until he is caught. And if you guys want to rough him up a bit for us, we would pay extra for that."

"I think you mistake the services we provide here," Brienne said. "I will not be roughing up any suspects in an investigation the police are currently executing. However, I will take this case, as long as you understand that if I find the unsub, I will be turning him over to the police, not to you."

"Understood," Mance said.

"Good," Brienne continued, "Now as far as my fees, you will be billed. I charge daily, not hourly. And I would like to stop by your establishment some time tonight to start taking notes. Would nine o'clock be acceptable?"

"Absolutely," Jeor said.

"I know those are your business hours, so I won't take long. I will need to see everywhere the unsub went. Given that it was supposed to be a robbery, I'm assuming there was a cash register and an office safe. If he was anywhere else though, I will need to observe that area as well."

"The Wall usually isn't too crowded at 9 o'clock on a Wednesday night," Mance said. "None of this should be a problem."

"Excellent," Brienne said as she stood up and shook their hands. "Pod will see you out, and I will see you tonight."

~

Later that evening, Jon Snow was performing on stage. Well, sort of. He was singing his sappy shit that none of the patrons liked. But it was all he sang since Ygritte died, and none of the regulars had the heart to tell him to fuck off. Mance and Jeor were behind the bar. Mance was bartending and Jeor was fiddling about on a laptop trying to construct a help wanted ad.

"I hate these things. What's wrong with just putting an ad in the paper?" he asked Mance for the ninth time.

"Nobody reads the paper anymore, that's what's wrong," Mance replied as he poured a draught.

"I don't see why not," Jeor grunted. "It's where all the news is."

"Do you read the paper?" Mance asked, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"No," Jeor mumbled. "That's what the TV is for."

"My point exactly," Mance replied.

Jeor continued to mumble as he typed. Finally he shoved the laptop under Mance's nose.

_Looking for a good job?_

_This job is good. It has flexible hours and benefits like free booze. Also the boss is cool. You should apply. 484-THE-WALL_

_Ask for Jeor, not Mance._

"I like the attempt at click-bait, but I think you should mention what the job is and how much money we are offering," Mance offered.

Jeor frowned and turned back to the laptop. Mance glanced over his shoulder.

_Looking for a good part time job?_

_The Wall is looking for a good part time janitor. $15/hr._

_Flexible hours, benefits like free booze. Cool boss._

_484-THE-WALL_

_Ask for Jeor, not Mance. Mance is so square._

"Much better," Mance said, not because it actually was better, but because Mance was too high to deal with this shit. Also because he needed Jeor to be done with the laptop and help him pour beers.

"Cool," said Jeor as he hit _SUBMIT_.

Tormund, one of Jon's roadies, was waving at them from his table. Probably looking for another pitcher. Jeor filled the pitcher and took it over. Tormund seemed to be regaling the other roadies at the table about the time he fucked Margaery Tyrell, the Victoria's Secret model.

"What is that?" Jeor interrupted him.

Tormund stopped to look at him with a puzzled expression.

"That." Jeor pointed at the burrito in his hands. Jeor knew very well what it was. He also knew that they did not serve burritos at the wall. So he didn't know how Tormund came to have the burrito. Also, Jeor was pretty high.

Tormund took in Jeor's puzzled expression and bloodshot eyes. He put one finger to his lips and said, "Sssshhhhh."

Jeor nodded, understanding completely. He turned and went back to the bar.

Maybe he should have waited till after his appointment with Brienne to smoke.

"Yeah, probably," Brienne said.

"Huh?" Jeor asked.

"You said that you should have waited until after our meeting to smoke," Brienne said, echoing his thoughts. Mind reader!

"You said it out loud," Brienne added when Jeor didn't respond. He blinked. Brienne sighed.

"Where am I starting?" she asked.

"Here, at The Wall!" Jeor offered.

"Never mind, I'll show myself around," Brienne said. "Is the office open?"

"Is your mind open?" Jeor pondered.

Brienne didn't smile. She gave him that nun stare that chilled him to the bone. He handed her the keys to the office.

Back behind the bar, Mance turned to Jeor and handed him three beers for table six.

When did the tables get numbers? Which numbers were which tables?

Gilly would have known this. Gilly needed to come home. Gilly was home. But she needed to be at The Wall.

Jeor took the beers to the only table with three people. They didn't seem surprised by the beer, so Jeor assumed he picked the correct table.

Tormund was waving again. Jeor took him another pitcher. Tormund handed him a squishy cylinder wrapped in tin foil. Jeor put it in his pocket. It was warm. Tormund smiled at him. Tormund had red hair.

Maybe Jeor shouldn't have smoked after he ate that brownie.

Jon's song was really dumb. It was also kind of stressful to listen to. Jeor wanted him to stop singing. But he also kind of liked the way Jon's voice harmonized.

Brienne came out of the office and gave Jeor the keys.

"I think I have what I need, but I would like to speak to our victim. What day will she be back in?"

"I wish I knew," Jeor said sadly. He looked over Brienne's shoulder to see Tormund staring at him, wide-eyed. Jeor patted his pocket. Tormund turned away.

"Call me when she does," Brienne said. She shook Jeor's hand and left. Jeor went back behind the bar with Mance. He pulled out the squishy tube Tormund had given him and peeled off the tin foil. A burrito.

"What's that?" Mance asked him.

"Dinner," Jeor replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by E.


	7. Cersei: Heads Will Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei Baratheon deals with her eldest son's latest temper tantrum.

There was no reason for Cersei’s cell phone to ring during the middle of her supposedly relaxing Thursday evening yoga routine. She knew that she could have easily switched the gold iPhone onto silent, but when one was a mother of three, one couldn’t exactly do that. Hoping desperately that it wasn’t Mircella asking to borrow one of the Baratheon’s five cars, Cersei apologized to her personal instructor, climbed off of her mat, and trotted across the patio to answer the call. When she saw the name on the display, her usual frown turned into a full-on grimace.

“This had better be important,” the tall, svelte blonde snapped. Even in middle age, Cersei was fitter, blonder, and thinner than most twenty-somethings. She had also perfected her resting bitch face to the point that it was audible through the phone.

“If you call your pop star sun getting kicked out of a nightclub at 8 PM important than yeah, it is,” the gruff voice on the other end answered in an equally pissed-off tone. Where Cersei was ice-cold, her employee, Sandor Clegane, was gruff and just as irritable.

Not giving a shit about the calm yoga instructor behind her, Cersei growled through her teeth into the iPhone, “What the fuck do I pay you for, Clegane? This is _your_ problem. Not mine.”

“You want me to knock him over the head? Because that’s the only thing that’s gonna stop him right now. That’ll go over great in the papers – Joff Baratheon with a black eye.”

“I will not only fire you, but press charges, if you so much as slap my son’s hand.” If there was one thing that stopped Cersei’s stone heart from beating, it was a threat to her children. She knew Joff was a handful, and that was why she had hired such a tough, hard man for his bodyguard. But she also knew that there were times her son could be more than a handful. As much as she refused to allow Clegane to “knock him over the head,” she also was willing to admit perhaps it was time for her to intervene before thing got worse. “Get him to his condo,” she demanded. “I don’t care how you do it so long as you don’t hit him. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

It was times like these when Cersei wished flip phones were still in fashion. The crisp slamming of the phone would have relieved some of her anger. Instead, she had to push down the growing desire to hurl her phone across the room at the instructor, who sat there, still calm, used to this sort of thing by now.

Taking a deep breath, Cersei pulled her best calm, in-control smile in her face. In the sweetest, silkiest voice she could muster, she said, “Perhaps we can reschedule.”

~

Traffic in L.A. was abysmal, but Cersei still made it to Joff’s apartment in time. The complex was gorgeous and full of other up-and-coming young stars. Initially, Robert had suggested placing Sansa Stark here, but Cersei knew her son too well for that. No good would come of placing a distraction in the form of a thin, young redhead down the hall from him. She’d insisted that Sansa would be more comfortable in a house, where her family could come and help her settle in.

She ignored the elevator in lieu of the stairs, something she always did to stay in shape or just because, like tonight, she was so often in a hurry. When she reached Joff’s door, she twisted her key in the lock and stalked inside.

Inside, she was greeted by quite the sight. Sandor Clegane slumped along the kitchen island, glaring down at Joffrey, who sat on the couch beside a curvaceous, barely dressed girl with honey-colored hair. The glass coffee table was littered with shot glasses, rolled up bills, and lines of white powder. The three turned their attention to her as the door slammed shut behind her. Joff was startled, but then smirked. The girl’s eyes went wide and her laugh died. Sandor just shook his head.

“Get out,” she snapped to the girl. She immediately obeyed, grabbing her clutch and heading on wobbly high-heeled legs to the door. Remembering that the girl was likely inebriated and not wanting to face any legal repercussions, Cersei stepped in front of her. “Give me your phone.”

“I didn’t take any pictures,” the girl insisted, glancing at Clegane. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, clearly scared of him or at least disgusted by his scars.

“Good.” Cersei still left her hand out, though, waiting for the phone. Shakily, the girl complied. Cersei swiped to her Uber app and opened it up. “A ride is on its way. Now go.”

The girl bolted out of the apartment, leaving Cersei alone with her son and his dog. For that was what Sandor Clegane was, a trained animal that knew when to fetch help for his master.

“Mother,” Joffrey offered with a sarcastic, lopsided smile. Cersei glared down at him, but then sat beside him on the couch. Knowing she needed _something_ to get her through this, she reached for one of the crisper-looking tubes on the table and inhaled one of the three lines prepared on the table. Almost immediately, she could feel her heart-rate increase, but it didn’t make her anxious. If anything, it helped her focus on the situation at hand.

Joffrey leaned forward to take his turn, but Cerei slapped his hand away, looking pointedly up at Clegane as she did so. Only she could ever touch her son like that. Joff whined as the fifty slid the powder around on the table. “What the fuck, Mom?”

“I am _not_ going to read about you throwing a fit and getting kicked out of a club,” Cersei spat. “I won’t turn on the television to see paparazzi footage of you ruining your name on every gossip show.”

“Come on, Mother. It wasn’t _that_ big of a deal.” He glared up at Clegane. “I can’t believe you called my mother, Sandy.”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “What would Sansa think?” she asked, her voice quiet and relaxed.

Joff laughed aloud. “Like I give a shit. And anyway, she’s so thrilled to be dating me, she wouldn’t – ”

“No, she _would_ ,” Cersei insisted, standing up. “And when she gets big, _you_ will give a shit. You _will_ give a shit that you weren’t the one to make her. You will give a shit when her second single doesn’t feature you, but whatever other dime a dozen pop star boy is out there. You will _give a shit_ when little girls stop buying your albums because their mothers and fathers don’t like your image.” She gestured at the mess before them. “You’re going to clean up your act, Joffrey. And you’re going to give a shit about it.”

Joff stared up at her, his smile gone. She knew she had him then. Maybe not forever. There was no telling with her devil of a son. But the only thing worse than the Devil was the Devil’s mother.

“Clean this mess up,” Cersei called over her shoulder to Clegane. Then, still in her yoga gear, she leaned over the table, blew the last line, turned on her sneakered-heel, and left.

~

The next morning, Cersei woke up early and alone as she always did. She washed her face in the bathroom sink, brushed her teeth, and worked out for twenty minutes before taking a quick shower – just a rinse. She applied her lotion and anti-aging creams, slipped into house wear, and headed down to the kitchen for breakfast. Mircella and Tommen had already been fed by the maid, and were in various stages of getting ready to head off for school. And Robert, as he always did, was just stumbling down the stairs to prepare his meal.

“An egg white omelet this morning, please,” Cersei commanded to whatever servant was in the kitchen this morning. She opened up the newspaper and flipped immediately to the Entertainment section a sense of confidence washing over her when Joffrey was only mentioned for his latest single. As her eggs were laid in front of her, she peered over the top of her paper at Robert, who sat at the other end of the table, munching away on cereal and bagels and eggs and bacon.

This was not the future Cersei had imagined twenty years ago. In a sense, it was. She had once pictured this domestic scene, sharing breakfast with her husband and reading the paper in content silence. In her fantasy from all those years ago, Robert had still been in shape and when their eyes had met, he had smiled at her and she had smiled back. Instead, now that he noticed her staring at him, he dropped his bagel and asked, “What?”

Cersei shook her head, pushing the fantasy aside. She folded the paper and tossed it onto the floor before beginning her breakfast and answering Robert in her own time. By now, he’d moved onto his fifth slice of bacon, anyway. Disgusting. “Joffrey is making an ass of himself,” she stated. “No thanks to you.”

Robert ignored the insult, checking his phone and smirking as he squinted down at it. “Trust me, that boy doesn’t need any help from me in that department.”

“You’re his father, Robert,” Cersei responded, not even bothering to snap at him as she did with others. There was really no use with Robert. After years of marriage, she knew how to handle the man. Go in calmly, or he’d run away, and then strike him when he least expected it. Quite like the large cat on her family’s ancient crest, the one that hung in her father’s Hamptons home. “And you’re also the CEO of a record label. Start focusing on his career. You’re paying too much attention to other prospects.”

Robert shrugged. “I can’t just focus on Joff. You know that.”

“You don’t focus on him at all,” she said before sipping her orange juice. God, she would die for a splash of champagne in it, but Mircella and Tommen were still home. She didn’t want to set a poor example.

“Come out with it, woman,” Robert said with a roll of his eye, dropping his phone onto the table and meeting her eye. “What is it you want?”

“See ya Mom!” Mircella called over her shoulder. “Shae is driving us to school!” The sweet girl ran into the room and kissed her mother and then her father goodbye on the cheek. “Bye, Daddy!”

“Bye Mom! Bye Dad!” Tommen called into the room, following close on his sisters’ heels as they ran out the front door together.

So often, Cersei wished that Joffrey was as sweet and manageable as her two youngest children. But then again, the boy would have never gotten to where he was now without his attitude, would he have?

Now that the children were gone, Cersei seriously considered reaching for the champagne, but she pushed the desire aside to continue her conversation with Robert as clear-headed as she could. Instead, she opted for coffee. She headed over to the Keurig and picked a cup at random.

“He needs to start recording another album,” Cersei insisted. “And he needs to immediately announce his next tour. I’m talking within the month.”

“A good album doesn’t get made in a month,” Robert said, reaching for his phone again.

Cersei would’ve slapped the phone out of his hand if she weren’t so busy waiting for her coffee to get ready. “It doesn’t have to be _good_ ,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Finally, the Keurig was done spitting out the brew. Cersei took a sip and grimaced. _Too sweet_. She’d accidentally chosen one of Mircella’s chocolately beverages that masqueraded around as coffee. Oh well. It’d do. “It just has to sell. Get your songwriters on it.”

Robert nodded. “There were a few songs that Sansa tried that just didn’t fit her sound,” Robert admitted with a shrug. “We can work a few for Joff.”

“Good,” Cersei said, a smug smile forming on her lips. Robert was, if anything, easy to predict. She knew how to work him by now. If only that knowledge had helped their marriage to stay healthy. The only problem was that Robert liked his food and his women just the same way – savory, thick, and bad enough to kill him.

Cersei was only the third of those things.

~

There was only one more step in her plan, and Cersei Lannister-Baratheon was two for two so far. And because of this, she walked into her brother Jaime’s club with her head held high. It was early still and the crew was just setting up. Even if they didn’t recognize Cersei, there was no stopping her as she catwalked to the back office. “Jamie,” she whispered as she stepped inside.

Her twin was hard at work at his desk, writing things down the old-fashioned way in his books. His handwriting was awful now that he was forced to write with his left-hand, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Many had suggested that he switch to computerized bookkeeping, but Jaime was too prideful to do so just because of an injury.

Years ago, he’d been a police officer. Cersei had been so, so proud of him. He’d cut a dashing figure in his blues and he really, truly wanted to protect the innocent. Towards the end of a fabulous rookie year, though, he’d been shot in his right hand. The wound was so bad that he’d lost the hand and now wore a prosthetic. Jaime viewed this as an imperfection, but to Cersei, at times, it just made her brother seem stronger.

“Hello, Cersei,” he said, turning in his swivel chair to face her. “What brings you to King’s Landing?” Jaime had hated deskwork as a police officer, and so he’d quit the force to open his own club with his father’s money. Apparently, paperwork wasn’t so bad when you were your own boss.

“I’ve come to ask you a favor,” Cersei stated, shutting the office door behind her.

With everyone else, Cersei was hard. Sure, with Robert she pulled up the blinders on occasion, but her husband knew that beneath the soft blanket of an exterior was a coiled serpent, ready to strike. It was rare that the felt the need to behave that way with her twin brother. They’d known one another since they were in the womb, after all. There was no fooling him, and thus no need to do so.

Reading her mind, Jaime shook his head. “I’m not letting Joffrey perform here.”

Cersei let out a sigh. “Why not?”

“He’s a mess, Cersei.”

 _Dammit, Tyrion_. On her drive over to Joffrey’s apartment, she had called her other brother and Joff’s PR Manager to update him on the situation, just in case word got out to the public. She hated her younger brother, but he was also the best public relations guy in L.A. Apparently, he had passed on the details to Jaime, who he managed to get along with quite well, to Cersei’s dismay. Focusing on the subject at hand, she addressed Jaime.

“That’s why he _needs_ to play here.” Cersei stepped closer to her brother, playing with her wedding ring. She wished she could take the damn thing off without causing a scandal. “He plays a show here and does well, and then other clubs will pick him up.”

“I’m not taking that risk. There’s no talking me into it.” Jaime was clearly adamant as he stood up and stalked across the room towards his sister so that they only stood inches apart. Both tall and blonde and tanned and toned, there was no mistaking them for anything other than twins.

Was there another way to convince him than with words? Cersei mulled over the idea but knew better, when it came down to it. “Please, Jaime,” she tried one final time. “He’s recording a new album and he’s going to go on tour. What better place to announce it than here at King’s Landing? It’s practically his home.” And that was true. Joff had performed his first show here at the age of fifteen. Jaime had considered it all to be a bit of a laugh at the time – he’d had his nephew perform during the dinner hour, when the dance club known for big-named performances was just opening and near dead. Cersei had known, however, that it was just the beginning.

Jaime shook his head and went back to his desk, shutting his books and storing them away in the appropriate drawers. “I’ll think about it,” he called behind him. “Let me hear the first single on the radio and _then_ he can announce his album and tour here.” He paused. “ _If_ it’s any good and if I don’t hear rumors about him getting wasted every night of the week.” He stood up tall and turned towards his sister before leaning against the desk. “I’m the one who looks like an idiot if he ends the show punching an audience member in the face. I’m the one who faces legal repercussions, because God knows you’re an expert at paying people off.”

Cersei smirked. “It certainly is a skill.”

She said goodbye to her brother and headed towards the bar to sip a glass of champagne on the house before departing. She was still craving it. “Celebrating?” the bartender, a new staff member who had yet to properly meet her asked.

From the outside looking in, anyone might thing she hadn’t won her fight, but Cersei knew better. Tossing her blonde hair out of her face, she took her first sip of the bubbly. “Yes, in fact, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let us know what you think of this chapter! Working on it was the most fun I've had writing in ages. - K


	8. Jon: A Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects on his past year and how he lost the person most important to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by E!

It was April 25th, 2015. 1:15am, Saturday night at The Wall. Stark Naked was celebrating riotously. They had just been offered a contract with Red Priest Records and Fury Records in the same night.

 _Allie woke up 8am_ _  
_ _Graduation day._ _  
_ _Got into a car,_   
_And crashed along the way._

The band consisted of Robb Stark on drums, Theon Greyjoy on bass, and Jon Snow on guitar and vocals. Five hours earlier, the boys were backstage at Winterfell. Although they had played Winterfell before, it was only as an opening act. This was the first time they were playing for an audience that included representatives from record labels. While most artists about to experience an opportunity like this would be happily congratulating each other, or taking a few shots to calm their anxiety, or maybe even running to the bathroom to nervously empty their stomachs, Robb, Theon, and Jon, were arguing about their name. Over the last four years, the boys had changed their name more times than they could count. Tonight, their name was Stark Naked, even though Robb was the only one named Stark.

Their name had been Iron Born up until a month ago when Robb and Jon had decided that it was too metal for their sound. Before that, it had been Summer Children (which they decided was too 70's), The Night Watch (which sounded a bit creepy and stalker-like), Servants of the Drowned God (too death metal), The Young Wolves (sounded like a Boy Scout ranking), Snow Pure (too innocent), Snow Go (too rhyme-y), Ward Of the State (too depressing, and it seemed like appropriation, since none of them were ever in the foster system), The Northmen (north was a relative term, and none of them were quite sure if it alienated whole regions of potential fans), Sons of Stark (only applied to two-thirds of the band, not to mention Ned wasn't a fan of it since it sounded like a Son of Sam reference), and The Krakens (which just sounded like a sports team).

Although they still weren't sold on Stark Naked, it was fun and a bit sexy. Also, Winterfell had already billed them with that name. So they were stuck with it at least until the end of the night.

"All I'm saying," Robb said, as he fixed his hair in the mirror, "is that we should reconsider Snow/Men."

"That's like the worst one of all the ones we've come up with," Theon argued as he tuned his bass.  "Might as well have tried to sell me on *NSYNC."

"I still think Total Bastards is the way to go," Jon said as he skulked in a corner, trying to hide his nerves from the other two.

"I don't think they can say that on the radio," Theon supplied, "and that's not good for advertising."

"Ten minutes," Tormund said as he stuck his head into the room. "Ready?"

"Almost," Robb said, tweaking the last few curls. Tormund left them alone again. "I have a confession guys: I'm pretty nervous." Robb sighed.

Theon and Jon breathed a sigh of relief in return. They were feeling the same way but they didn't want to say it. The first two songs in their set tonight were covers. Just crowd-pleasing, upbeat songs to get the audience excited. Everything after that was going to be original songs Robb and Theon had worked on for years now.

Theon wrote the music, Robb wrote the songs, and Jon sang the songs. Robb and Theon treated this band like a baby they had given birth to together. Not that Jon wasn't equally invested, he just wasn't equally emotional about it.

It wasn't that there wouldn't be more chances for more shows or more opportunities to break into the industry, it's just that there would only be one _first_ big show. One chance for a first impression. There was also the added pressure of the venue they were playing belonging to Robb and Jon's father. Ned was staking his professional reputation on them, so it would be best to not disappoint.

The show was a success though. Stark Naked found representatives from two different labels waiting for them after the show, Renly Baratheon from Fury Records and Petyr Baelish from Red Priest Records. Robb agreed to make appointments with both of them.

Theon, Jon, and Robb thanked Ned for booking them, then headed to their favorite bar, The Wall, to celebrate. The Wall had been the first venue they ever booked. The one owner, Mance, had recognized their “it” factor pretty early on. The Wall was now a regular venue for them and they could think of no better way to celebrate than with cheap beer at their favorite bar.

 _When we arrived late to the wake,_ _  
_ _Stole the urn while they_ _  
_ _Looked away,_ _  
_ _And drove to the beach_ _  
_ _'cause I knew you'd want it_ _  
_ _That way._   
  
"Can I get another beer?" Jon shouted over his shoulder at the bar. Robb had bought the first round and he had been standing there for half an hour before he got his order, which was a pitcher of Yuengling. The Wall was maybe half full, so clearly the bartender didn't know what he was doing. Jon decided to order his next beer while his first one was only half finished.

"Why don't you finish what you have and then we will talk?" Jon heard from behind him. What kind of customer service was that? If he had said that to a customer while he was working at Winterfell, Ned would have slapped him, then fired him.

Jon drained his beer and stood up to walk back and have a word with the bartender. But as he turned around, he stopped in his tracks. There was an insanely hot redhead standing behind it. Blue eyes. She was definitely new. Jon would have remembered seeing her before. He was there almost every night of the week.

 _Okay,_ he thought to himself, _you haven't fucked up your chances with her yet. Just be charming and funny and... You know what? Just be Robb. Don't be yourself, be Robb. Now, say something clever._

"Do you come here often?" he asked her. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he thought, _No you idiot, she_ works _here._ Of course _she comes here often, because she gets paid. Wait._ You _are the regular here, you're the one that comes here often and you've obviously never seen her before so you already know she doesn't come here often. God, stop fucking this up, Jon. Get your head in the damn game!_

At this point, running seemed like a viable option to Jon.

"You could say that," the woman answered. "Since I get paid to be here, I do come as often as possible." The corner of her mouth turned up. A smirk. Jon was going to count that as a smile. He wasn't out of the game yet.

"Well, I'm done my beer now," Jon ventured, settling himself on a barstool. Sticky counter. "So I guess it's time you and I talked."

"I suppose so," she said. "What are you having?"

"Yuengling."

She turned around and bent over, getting a fresh glass. Yoga pants. She handed him the empty glass and a bottle she had taken the cap off of. Dogfish Head.

"That's not what I ordered," Jon said.

"It's better," the redhead replied.

"It's also more expensive," Jon countered.

"I'll only charge you for a Yuengling then," she shrugged as she grabbed a towel to wipe the sticky counter. "Can't blame a girl for trying to expand your tastes."

Jon wiped the dust off his bottle and took a swig. Cold, but not icy cold.

"You know why no one here orders the bottles?" he asked her.

"No idea," she replied as the towel got stuck to a particularly sticky patch of the bar. She struggled to pull it up.

"Because Mance and Jeor never get new ones. Case in point," he pointed to his own label. "This is three years old."

"Well maybe if you guys ordered the bottles, they would have to replace them more often," she muttered. The woman extricated the towel, shrugged a bit, and placed a little triangular drink list standee over the sticky patch before moving on.

Jon quietly sipped his beer and watched her. She kept giving out the bottles. Most customers didn't say anything, but a few started grumbling. She had snappy comments for all of them, however. Jon finished the Dogfish Head.

"Thank you," he began. "That was a nice change. But I would like a Yuengling now."

"So you didn't like it," she said.

"I didn't say that."

"'Course you didn't. I'm inferring," she responded.

"I don't think you know where the Yuengling is," Jon ventured. She looked confused.

"Sure I do. It's in the keg."

"Then I don't think you know how to pour from a keg," Jon concluded. The woman deflated a bit. Jon immediately felt bad.

"Here," Jon said, ducking under the bar, "let me show you. I used to work at my dad's bar."  
  
_And you were standing_ _  
_ _On the hood of the car_ _  
_ _Singing out loud_   
_When the sun came up._

Later that morning, the woman (her name was Ygritte, Jon had learned) and Jon sat at one of the empty tables. The Wall was long closed, but Jon had offered to help Ygritte clean up, since she clearly had no idea what she was doing. Now that everything was done, though, Jon was finding it difficult to leave. He had also learned that Ygritte was Mance's brother-in-law's niece. She was attending Columbia and needed a part time job.

"Come on," she said eventually, "I need to close up, go home, and go to sleep. It's five in the morning."

"Oh." Jon was actually pretty disappointed that she had to go. He had been enjoying her company.

"Walk me home?" she asked him as they stood outside in the cool spring morning.

"Uh, sure." Later, Jon would not be able to recall what he had chattered about so nervously the whole time he had walked her home. He wouldn't remember if she had laughed at what he had said or at herself, only that she had laughed, and it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard. He wouldn't remember what they were wearing, how long the walk was, or if they passed other people. He would only remember how he felt at that particular moment. In the moment, Jon did not realize he was falling in love, only that he was feeling more alive than he ever had before.

As they stopped outside the door to her building, Ygritte turned to head inside.

"I'll see you around," Jon called. Ygritte stopped and turned to him, looking very confused as he turned away.

"You know nothing," she grumbled, and went into her building, leaving Jon alone on the street, realizing he was totally lost. He knew his borough, and the street he was on was a lot closer to The Wall than the amount of walking they had done would have suggested. Pulling out his phone and searching for walking directions home, he realized she had taken him in circles.

"I'm such an idiot," he mumbled as he walked himself back to the apartment he shared with Robb and Theon.  
  
_And I know I wasn't right,_ _  
_ _But it felt so good._ _  
_ _And your mother didn't mind,_ _  
_ _Like I thought she would._ _  
_ _And that REM song was playing_ _  
_ _In my mind._ _  
_ _And three and a half minutes_   
_Felt like a lifetime_

It wasn't long before Jon and Ygritte made it official. Although Theon and Robb thought they were moving way too fast, neither could deny the happiness that surrounded Jon, so neither of his roommates said anything when Jon started showing up late or sometimes just skipping practices and meetings.

As spring blazed into summer, Stark Naked started selling out venues when they booked them. Robb and Theon had enough original content that by the time they signed a deal, they could start recording right away. Their first single hit number one in less than a week. That whole sun-soaked, blissful summer was a blur in Jon's memory. Each day bled into the next and only special moments stood out in sharp relief in his mind like the first time he and Ygritte had dinner together, the time they went to the beach, the time they got stuck in a torrential downpour and had to seek refuge in a bus shelter. They had decided to pass the time by making out until a car drove by and soaked them through. That was the same afternoon that they made love for the first time. Well, the first time for Jon, anyway. He didn't think he did too badly. At least, she didn't say he had.

Ygritte didn't go to most of Stark Naked's shows since she had a job that usually required she work the same hours during which the shows were taking place. The band usually ended up at The Wall after a show though, so it didn't seem to matter too much. But as summer began to cool, Ygritte began to show her jealous side.

With Stark Naked's immediate success came a side effect: groupies. The band could not go anywhere together or alone without getting recognized. Usually, all that people wanted were autographs or maybe a photo. Sometimes there was a bolder fan amongst them. One of the more memorable ones (and Theon's favorite) was a girl in a Starbucks who had interrupted one of the band's many arguments about their name to flash them and ask them to sign her chest. There was no way to hide that story from Ygritte, and the fight she and Jon had after that one was one of their worst ones.

When groupies would inevitably show up at The Wall, Ygritte would do everything short of kicking them out. She would "forget" to serve them, overcharge them, put reserved signs on all the empty tables, or sometimes just be downright rude to them. She did this indiscriminately, not just to the ones that were fawning over Jon.

Jon, of course, thought it was cute. Robb and Theon, however, weren't so sure. Every time they brought it up with Jon, though, he laughed it off as one of Ygritte's quirks. Robb and Theon let it lie as long as Jon showed up to practices, recordings, and gigs.

By October, they had finished recording all the songs for their first album, _Winter Is Coming._ They decided to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to release the album. That way, they would miss the 2015 submission date for consideration for the Grammys, and give themselves a whole year until the 2016 Grammys.

_It felt like a lifetime_

The night before Thanksgiving, Stark Naked was playing at The Wall. It was one of the few times that little bar was actually filled to capacity. Jeor, Mance, Ygritte, and Jodie (the other bartender) were all working at once. Ygritte actually wasn't being rude to the customers because she was so busy. Truth be told, she also loved getting to hear Jon perform for once. It probably helped that Jon was dedicating every other song to her.

Jon remembered  feeling so happy that night that he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't going to spontaneously combust. He remembered that he was drinking Dogfish Head. He remembered dedicating songs to Ygritte and looking up to see her at the other end of the bar smiling at him over the crowd, blue eyes sparkling with pride.

He didn't remember how many times he actually spoke to Ygritte that night. He didn't remember what he said to her at the end of the night when he was leaving and she was staying to close with Jeor, Mance, and Jodie. He didn't remember how her lips felt against his as he kissed her goodnight. He didn't remember the walk home or falling asleep. He didn't know he would need to remember it, so he didn't commit it to memory.

 _And you move like water_ _  
_ _I could drown in you._ _  
_ _And I fell so deep once,_   
_Till you pulled me through_

Jon remembered the phone call. He remembered the confused man's voice asking who this was. He remembered his stomach immediately sinking through the floor as he thought Ygritte was cheating on him.

"Is this the emergency contact for Ygritte Hansen?"

Jon remembered the relief that flooded his chest when he heard that. Not caring that it was almost five in the morning.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"This is Dr. Targaryen. Ygritte is here in Mother's Mercy Hospital. She was involved in a car accident. We need you to come right away."

Jon would never forget the ice cold fingers that wrapped themselves around his spine when he heard that.

He wouldn't remember if he woke Robb or if Robb woke when Jon shouted and threw his clock across the room. He wouldn't remember if he called Mance or if Theon called Mance. Jon wouldn't remember how he got to the hospital, or how he found out what room to go to.

He would remember running down the hall and feeling like he was running underwater. He would remember almost overshooting the door as he pivoted. He would remember how hard those last three steps to her bedside were.

He would never forget the way she looked in that bare room on the most uncomfortable looking bed in the world, nor the sound of her death rattle. The sound of her blood filled lungs trying to fit some oxygen in there as well. Most of her fingers looked as though they were broken. Most of her body looked broken. Why weren't they fixing her? Why was she just lying here? What was that annoying buzzing noise?

Could he hold her hand? Would that hurt her?

Her eyes were closed, the lids weren't even fluttering. Jon reached out to hold her hand as gently as possible. As his hand cupped hers, he realized that the annoying sound in the background was her monitor flat lining and that the rattling breathing had fallen silent.  
  
_You would tell me_ _  
_ _"No one is allowed to be so proud_ _  
_ _They never reach out_   
_When they're giving up."_

Jon didn't leave his room for two weeks. When he did leave his room, it was to go to The Wall. Stark Naked cancelled all of their gigs through February. Jon lost fifteen pounds. He didn't leave the apartment on Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Years. Ned stopped by almost every day. Jon barely noticed. He wasn't quite sure why he was here when Ygritte wasn't.  
  
_And I know I wasn't right,_ _  
_ _But it felt so good._ _  
_ _And your mother didn't mind,_ _  
_ _Like I thought she would._ _  
_ _And that REM song was playing_ _  
_ _In my mind._ _  
_ _And three and a half minutes_   
_Felt like a lifetime_

Beer was comforting. Much more comforting than any of his family or friends. When you had enough beer, the edges of things became a bit blurred. Memories also seemed to blend. And maybe if you drank enough beer, the memories would come to the surface and you could experience them all over again.

Maybe if you drank enough beer, you would wake up to find out that all of your problems had been a bad dream.

The problem with beer (if there is a problem with beer, that is) is that beer costs money. So in late February, Jon started working again. He had forgotten how therapeutic music was. Robb and Theon told him that he could dedicate all the songs he wanted to Ygritte. He didn't dedicate a single one to her.  
  
_Are you sitting in the lights?_ _  
_ _Or combing your hair again,_ _  
_ _And talking in rhymes?_   
_Are you sitting in the lights?_

And so Jon's days continued in a blur. Fuzzy edges blurred into each other until Jon was never entirely sure what day it actually was.

Jon saved all of the texts he and Ygritte had sent. He often went back and read them. Especially the ones from their last night together.

_Can't wait to see you play tonight! Too xcited! Are you going to dedicate a song to me?_

_That depends. What does a song get me?_

_How about a beer?_

_That hardly seems fair. I sing my heart out and play a guitar at the same time_ _and you pop the cap off a beer?_

_How about a beer and a kiss?_

_I think we're moving in the right direction..._

_I think you're getting greedy_

_Can't blame a guy for trying..._

_No, I can't. You're too cute._

_XD_

_Don't let that get to your head_

_Doesn't matter if I do or don't. I know YOU won't let it go to my head._

_True._

_Ok, I gotta go to practice. Love you. See you tonight!_

_♡_ _you. See you tonight xoxoxo_ _  
_  
_When I got home, heard the phone,_ _  
_ _Your parents had arrived._ _  
_ _And your dad set his jaw_   
_Your mom just smiled and sighed._

After that conversation was another text: “I had the worst dream ever last night. Not even sure if I should tell you. Call me when you wake up.”

Jon had sent that as he woke up the next day, before all the memories of the night before came flooding back to him. He thought about deleting the text, but it became somewhat comforting seeing it there, labeled a day after she had died, almost as if there was a chance that she might answer it someday.

Jon had wanted to get Ygritte's phone. He had wanted to continue to pay the bill so that he could keep the voicemail message forever. So he could call her phone and hear her voice.

But the phone had been completely destroyed. Jon wasn't even able to get the photos off of it.

 _But they left soon_ _  
_ _And I went to my room._ _  
_ _Played that disc that you'd given me,_ _  
_ _And I shut my eyes_   
_Swear I could hear the sea._

_I miss you._

Jon stared at the text on his screen. He had caved and texted Ygritte's number. He wasn't sure if the disgust he felt for himself for doing this was better or worse than the isolation he had been feeling a minute ago as he sat in his room. He put his phone on his desk and laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He could just go to sleep now. He wasn't drunk enough yet, though.

_DING!_

He turned skeptically to his desk as his phone chimed with a text message. He picked it up and glanced at the screen.

Ygritte

It couldn't be...

He opened the message.

_Who is this?_

Heart beating a tattoo in his chest, Jon responded.

_It's Jon. Who is this?_

_I'm Edd. I think you may have the wrong number._

_No, it's the right number. It belonged to my girlfriend. Sometimes I forget she's dead and I text her. Sorry to bother you, Edd. I didn't realize the number had been reassigned._

Jon wasn't sure why he sent that to a total stranger, but before he could dwell too much, the phone dinged again.

_Wow, I'm very sorry to hear that, Jon. What was she like, if you don't mind me asking?_

The corner of Jon's mouth quirked up a bit. Maybe tonight was a good night for a trip to The Wall after all.

Grabbing his hoodie, he wandered out of the apartment as he crafted a response to Edd. As weird as it was explaining Ygritte to a total stranger, he felt somehow a bit more connected to the present than he had in almost six months.

 _When we were standing_ _  
_ _On the hood of your car_   
_Singing out loud when the sun came up._

"Another," Jon pushed his empty bottle towards the new bartender, Gilly.

"Are you sure?" she asked him skeptically.

"Another," he repeated. It was too blurry for full sentences.

Gilly said nothing as she popped the cap off another bottle of Dogfish Head and pushed it towards him. Gilly was kind of cute in a not-Ygritte sort of way.

Jon sipped the cold beer and continued to play with his coaster. Soon. Soon the blurry would turn to black and when he woke up, this would all have been a dream and Ygritte would be behind the bar.

"Oh. My. God. Are you Jon Snow?" Jon heard from somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder. It wasn't blurry enough for this.

"Yeah," he replied, still spinning the coaster.

"I thought so," the voice said, and Jon could feel it settling onto the barstool next to him. "My name is Amanda," it told him.

Jon nodded. He could see Gilly smirking at him. He finally turned to look at the voice, if only to avoid Gilly's smile. The voice belonged to a redhead of a similar height and build to Ygritte. But it wasn't Ygritte. The red was from a bottle. Brown eyes.

Jon must have frowned. He wasn't sure. But Amanda looked a bit sheepish.

"Can I have your autograph?" she asked him, pulling a pen out of her purse.

Jon signed the coaster and gave it to her. She left shortly thereafter. Jon wouldn't remember that encounter. He was no longer concerned with the little things. Instead, he was trying to commit the important things to memory.

 _And I know I wasn't right,_ _  
_ _But it felt so good._ _  
_ _And your mother didn't mind,_ _  
_ _Like I thought she would._ _  
_ _And that REM song was playing_ _  
_ _In my mind._ _  
_ _And three and a half minutes,_   
_Three and a half minutes_ ,

It was Monday, April 25, 2016. 1:23AM, Jon had just recounted his last year to a total stranger and he had never felt more dead inside than he did now.

_Felt like a lifetime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "A Lifetime" by Better Than Ezra


	9. Sam: Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam needs a job. The Wall needs a janitor. Jon needs a whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a week later than usual! Thanks for reading and we will try to post more ASAP! - K & E

_Historic hotel on one of New York's oldest streets. Combining modern luxury with old world charm, The Reginald has something for everyone, whether you are traveling for business or leisure, or just looking for a quality meal or drinks after work._

_We are looking for Part-Time Cocktail Servers to join our amazing_ _team!_  
  
_Requirements:_  
-A sunny disposition  
-1+ years of serving experience  
-Bartending experience highly preferred  
-Must have strong communication skills and an outgoing personality  
-Ability to stand for long periods of time, and lift 25lbs overhead

Sam clicked out of the Craigslist ad. He was not going to meet any of the requirements past sunny disposition. Besides, based on the photo at the bottom of the current staff, it looked as though the only men they hired moonlighted as Chippendale dancers. Sam was less of a Patrick Swayze and more of a Chris Farley.

He clicked on the next ad.

 _Looking for a good part time job?_  
_The Wall is looking for a good part time janitor. $15/hr._  
_Flexible hours, benefits like free booze. Cool boss._  
484-THE-WALL  
Ask for Jeor, not Mance. Mance is so square.

_==========_

_Looking for a good job?_  
_This job is good. It has flexible hours and benefits like free booze. Also the boss is cool. You should apply. 484-THE-WALL  
Ask for Jeor, not Mance._

Sam quickly Googled The Wall, which turned out to be a dive bar. Ok, so whoever wrote this ad was probably not sober. Sam wasn't sure if he should believe the $15/hr that was promised in the ad. Although that sort of money for a part time janitor job was nothing to turn your nose up at. Sure, it probably meant he would be cleaning up puke and shit all the time, but that wasn't much different than what he was doing already at the hospital, and the pay was (supposedly) better.

Beginning to feel excited about this lead, Sam took a big bite of his sandwich, only to have mayonnaise squirt out of the bottom and onto his blue scrubs. Ugh, why did he put mayonnaise on his sandwich? He didn't even really like mayonnaise. Now he was going to have to go to class with a white stain on his crotch. Awesome.

He heard a snicker and looked up to see one of his classmates, Tyene, staring at him and giggling from three computer terminals away. Fantastic. Tyene was really pretty and usually didn't wear anything under her scrubs which meant that she was one of the more well-known medical students, and not just among the male students. She was the only one to get an A in Dr. Pycelle's class.

When she saw that he noticed her, she frowned at him and whispered sharply, "You're not supposed to be eating in the library!"

"I know," he tried to whisper back, but he was pretty sure his voice carried to every corner of the library. "But if I didn't eat now, I wasn't going to get another chance until three in the morning." He had a meeting with his advisor soon and then he was working a double shift at the hospital since he had agreed to cover Edric’s shift before he got his schedule. No one else would take it for him.

Tyene looked Sam up and down in a way that clearly told him she thought skipping the sandwich would have been in his best interest. Without a word, she turned back to her computer terminal, a clear dismissal of Sam. In a way, that hurt worse than if she had made some snide remark.

Sam dropped the rest of his sandwich back into the plastic wrap it had come in and packed up his bag. He had to get to his meeting with his advisor. On his way out of the library, he dialed the number for The Wall.

The phone picked up on the third ring.

"Who calls The Wall?" a man's voice said in an attempt to be spooky. Sam heard another man giggling in the background. Definitely not sober, and it might not just be alcohol. It was only one in the afternoon for crying out loud!

"Hi, my name is Sam Tarly. I was interested in the janitorial position you posted on Craigslist. If it is still available, I would like to interview for it. I'm supposed to ask for Jeor."

It sounded like the man on the phone tried to cover the receiver with his hand, but since the voices didn't get muffled, Sam assumed his hand must be on the earpiece.

"Jeor, dude, did you hire a janitor yet?"

"Nah man, no one even called about it yet. I mean who wants to clean up puke and shit?"

"Okay, well, the kid on the phone wants the job."

"Well shit, I guess he should come in and have an interview. We need the formalities. The government is always watching...is he a minority? We could use some around here. It's a pretty white staff we got."

"I don't know. I didn't ask. Can I ask that? I don't think I can. I'm not supposed to ask if someone is pregnant either, right?"

"I doubt he's pregnant. When is he coming in?"

"Oh shit, I forgot he's on the phone still!" The voice got louder as it said, "Hey, Sam. Wanna come in tomorrow at like 6:30? Jeor can interview you then."

"I can make it there by 6:45," Sam offered.

"Okay, cool. See you then, dude." The man hung up, leaving Sam wondering if maybe he should have just kept looking at those ads. He couldn't turn down $15/hour though, especially since the hospital was only paying him minimum wage to be an orderly. Although Sam was attending Cornell's medical school program and doing very well, he also worked part time as an orderly at the hospital in order to get some extra face time there and establish a relationship with the doctors and administrators.

Unfortunately, pretty much every other med student in Sam's class had the same plan. That meant that all of their teachers saw all of them all the time. It evened out to not really being too much more face time than any of the other students had with the same teachers, so Sam wasn't sure why he wasn't looking for a part-time job with better pay at this point.

~

"Why did you want to become a doctor, Sam?"

Sam pondered the question for a moment. His advisor, Dr. Aemon Targaryen, regarded him from across the desk. His fingers were steepled in front of him. Sam's fingers were nervously playing with his ID card.

"Was your father a doctor?" Dr. Targaryen prompted, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"My uh…my father," Sam started uncertainly, "he never wanted me to be a doctor. He was in the Navy, you see, my father. He uh, he and my grandfather and my great-grandfather. They were all in the armed forces. Made careers out of it, you know?" Sam had grown up as an army brat (well, Navy, that is). He had lived all over the world while he grew up. His father had met his mother overseas. She was a lovely Englishwoman. Sam had hints of an English accent in his speech since she had taught him how to talk. Sam's father was a typical career soldier. Now in his late fifties, he was Admiral Randal Tarly. Sam and his brother, Dick (which was a very fitting name for his brother, actually), didn't refer to their father as 'dad'. They called him “The Admiral”. Honestly, the Admiral probably preferred it that way anyway.

"Even my brother is in the Coast Guard," Sam continued. "So I think it was always just assumed that I would also become a soldier. But I mean, look at me. I'm hardly fit for it."

Dr. Targaryen was gazing at a spot somewhere above Sam's left shoulder. His coke-bottle glasses sat on the desk before him.

"Uh, Dr. Targaryen," Sam ventured, "do you need your glasses?" He leaned over and pushed the glasses closer to the old man.

"I don't need my glasses to hear you, Sam," Dr. Targaryen replied, stopping Sam's hand. "And I know perfectly well what you look like."

Sam turned a bit red. He always seemed to say the wrong thing. That seemed to be his curse in life. He remembered his last phone call with his dad. His father had been berating him once again because he had decided to go to Cornell rather than join the armed forces and go through medical school that way, putting in time as a field doctor.

~

_"You're not incapable, boy, you're lazy and irresponsible," his father's gravelly voice growled at Sam through the phone._

_"Sir, I never would have made it. We both know that." Sam tried his best not to stutter._

_"You've got nothing but one excuse after another. You don't know anything about dedication or hard work. You don't know what it means to sacrifice. You didn't even try; you just gave up. That's not how I raised you.” Sam could hear scuffling as his mother pulled the phone out of his father’s hands._

_"I'm sorry I can't be perfect!" Sam shouted in a rare moment of angst as his mother pulled the phone out of his father's hands._

_"Sam," she huffed into the phone, "Go to class. We will talk to you later." She hung up. His mother had no patience for their constant fights._

~

"Sam," Dr. Targaryen prompted, pulling him back to the present.

"When...when I was a kid," Sam hesitated a bit before continuing. "I uh, I got beaten up a lot by the other boys." He didn't mention that his brother usually participated in the beating, if he wasn't the one who had started it in the first place.

"The first few times I came home a mess, my mother would have a fit and call the school. That just made things worse though. So I started learning how to fix myself up so no one would notice. Slowly my interest in first-aid turned into an interest in biology and eventually into medicine. By the time I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be a doctor, but on my own terms, not my father's." Sam's voice was stronger by the end of his declaration.

"So you studied and got yourself a scholarship," Dr. Targaryen supplied.

"Yes," Sam continued. "I got accepted to every school I applied to for college, but I went to a state school to save money for this school. I knew I wanted to go to Cornell." Although not the deciding factor, it had helped that his father’s next door neighbor and longtime rival, Admiral Bolton, was a graduate of Cornell. Not the medical school, but the association still bothered Admiral Tarly.

"Your grades over the last three semesters have been fantastic," Dr. Targaryen pointed out. "Three point nine seven. Not many students are capable of that sort of number."

Sam was still a bit bitter about the fact that it wasn't a 4.0. Dr. Pycelle had given him a B last semester. Tyene had received an A, even though she didn’t show up for the final.

“And you volunteer at the hospital,” Dr. Targaryen pointed out.

“It’s not really volunteering,” Sam clarified. “I work there. I’m an orderly. But I’m only making minimum wage so I was thinking about getting another job.”

“You aren’t a volunteer?” Dr. Targaryen asked, sounding surprised.

“No,” Sam said, not sure if that was the right answer.

“Sam, all the students are volunteers.”

“Even Edric?” Sam asked, feeling his stomach sink to the floor.

“Especially Edric. His father paid for half of that hospital to be built. He doesn’t need a minimum wage job. He does need some volunteer work on his résumé though.”

How many “shifts” had Sam taken for his fellow students over the last two semesters? How many nights had he worked doubles when he should have been studying for tests? How many times were they laughing at him for showing up to work when they themselves could have simply not shown up and had no repercussions? All of Sam’s manager’s comments about watching his overtime made sense now since he had clocked in for all of those shifts. He thought he might be sick.

Dr. Targaryen seemed to realize what was going on.

“Sam, sometimes the people who should be our greatest allies end up being our most difficult tasks. You assume the best in people, and that’s an admirable trait. But never forget that everybody is only looking out for themselves. There’s no reason you shouldn’t do the same. Take the better paying job. No one will miss the minimum wage volunteer.”

~

Sam stood in his green scrubs outside the run down bar, debating whether or not to just skip the interview. The place didn't look like it was thriving, let alone open. Although, the illuminated neon sign that said _OPEN_ would suggest otherwise. Sam decided to go in, reasoning that, if nothing else, he could really use a drink. Also he had an hour to kill, and it was starting to rain outside.

The inside of The Wall was not much better than the outside. Barely more than a garden shed with some twinkle lights thrown about. The rakes being used as wine glass holders really added to the shed feeling. Sam was surprised they served wine.

Parts of the place looked like they hadn't been dusted since the Civil War. The floor was a disaster. It was stained, scuffed, sticky, and slightly sour smelling. There were a bunch of mismatched tables and chairs strewn about the room. At the back of the room was a small, makeshift stage. A lone man about Sam's age sat on a stool with a microphone in front of him, playing an acoustic guitar and singing John Mayer's "In Your Atmosphere" surrounded by a veritable display of empty beer bottles.

Two other guys about the same age sat at a table in the middle of the room. There was one other full table and a handful of single stragglers scattered about the rest of the room. Sam observed that there were no women in the bar at all.

Behind the counter was a man in his late sixties. His heavily lined face was framed with long, mostly still-black hair. He was drying glasses with a greasy looking towel. Sam approached the bar.

"What can I get you?" the man asked without even glancing up at Sam.

"Hi, I’m actually here for an interview, actually,” Sam smiled uncertainly, internally hating himself for saying “actually” twice in once sentence. “Sam Tarly.”

“Oh, Jeor is in the office…JEOR!” The man turned and shouted. “YOUR SIX FORTY-FIVE IS HERE EARLY!”

He turned back to Sam and extended his hand. “I’m Mance,” he said as another man emerged from the back office. The man was shorter and fatter than Mance, with close-cropped silver hair and a scowl on his face.

“Sam, Jeor. Jeor, Sam.” Mance waved his hand between them by way of casual introduction before going back to drying the pint glasses.

“Nice to meet you, son,” Jeor said. His voice was gruff, but not unkind. Sam smiled genuinely.

“You ever been a janitor before?” Jeor asked.

“No,” Sam said, unsure if this would hurt his chances.

“Well why do you want to be a janitor, then?”

Sam was surprised by the question, but also surprised by how much this reminded him of his earlier conversation with Dr. Targaryen. The man on the stage started playing “Aimee” by Damian Rice. Sam hated that song.

“I work at the hospital,” Sam replied, motioning to his scrubs. “I’m an orderly. I figured this wouldn’t be too much of a leap. And I wouldn’t mind the money.”

“Orderly,” Jeor grumbled. “That’s basically a janitor. You’re not squeamish, are ya?”

“No,” Sam replied quickly, “I’m in medical school now. I’m not squeamish.”

“Good. It can get pretty gross around here. Can’t have you making more puke to clean.” Jeor paused for a moment before adding, “Med school, huh? Good for you. You must be pretty smart. How’s this going to work with your schedule?”

“I go to class during the morning and afternoons. I could be here by seven.”

“Nah, no need to be that early. If you got here around nine or ten and worked until two or three that would be fine. When we’re slow or everyone is relatively sober, there isn’t a whole lot to clean except the floors and countertops and you would be doing that at the end of the night anyway. It’s really when people get drunk and start spilling stuff that we would need you. The bartender can’t be cleaning and pouring at the same time.”

“How many days a week would you want me to come in?” Sam asked.

“Hmm, how about we start with – hang on,” Jeor cut himself off as the guitar played the opening chords of a Nickelback song. There were a few half-hearted boos from the scattered patrons. Sam wasn’t sure why. He liked that song.

“Not this shit again,” Mance cried as he and Jeor sprinted for the stage. Jeor cut the power for the mic and Mance ripped the guitar away from the man on the stool. Sam noticed that the two guys around his age at the table in front of the stage had their heads in their hands.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, stop playing that shit in our place of business. It’s not enjoyable for anyone and you’re driving business away. You wanna play that shit, go to a redneck bar,” Mance was saying to the man as he shook the guitar at him.

“Fine, keep it,” the man said, standing up. “I won’t censor my feelings.” He walked back towards the bar and perched himself on a stool less than a foot away from Sam. Without looking around for a bartender, he leaned over the counter and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler. He poured himself what looked like six fingers worth and proceeded to drink it neat while Mance programmed the jukebox in the corner.

Jeor came trotting back up to Sam.

“Sorry about that,” Jeor said. “That’s just Jon. He lost his girlfriend a few months back and he’s been a bit mopey since then. Anyway, I think we can finish this up pretty quickly. I like you. I want to hire you. Pays fifteen dollars an hour. That’s not negotiable until you’ve been around a while. I’d want you to be here Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. If you want extra hours, you can come in Monday and Wednesday as well.” He paused for Sam to consider.

“Alright,” Sam said. “When will I start?”

“As soon as you sign the paperwork,” Jeor answered, shaking Sam’s hand. “But let’s actually plan on Thursday. I’ll pop into the back office and get the legal documents for you to fill out.”

He left Sam alone at the bar by Jon. Sam was sure it was Jon Snow of Stark Naked. Sam was a big fan. Their debut album, _Winter is Coming_ , was one of Sam’s top five all-time favorite albums. _Calm down_ , Sam told himself, _don’t be a fangirl. He’s probably totally normal, like you. He hangs out at shitty dive bars and drinks bottom shelf whiskey._

Sam must have been staring because Jon turned to look him over.

“Yes?” Jon asked.

“Sorry,” Sam was flustered now. He was probably blushing too. _Dammit, what man blushes when another man looks at him? Oh God, that sounded like my father_ , Sam thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “I thought you played very well. I’m sorry they stopped you.” Mentally, he kicked himself. _What are you doing, Sam? Are you trying to get in his pants?_

“Thanks,” Jon said as he took another gulp of whiskey. He picked up the bottle and refilled his cup. He held the bottle out to Sam, but didn’t offer him a glass. “Want some?”

“No thank you,” Sam was a bit startled by his offer. “I have to get going in a bit.”

“Suit yourself. Best that you don’t drink and drive though,” Jon put the bottle away. Jeor was still back in the office. Mance was up by the stage playing with the jukebox. It was just Sam and Jon _. I wonder if he comes here often_ , Sam mused.

“I’m sorry you lost your girlfriend,” Sam said.

“Did Mance tell you that?” Jon asked.

“No, Jeor, actually,” Sam corrected _. I wonder if I can get him to sign something for me_ , Sam thought.

“Drunk driver,” Jon murmured darkly into his cup.

“Really?” Sam asked, shocked.

“Yeah,” Jon’s head flew up to look at Sam when he heard the bewilderment in Sam’s voice.

“What?” he asked Sam.

“It’s just that, your girlfriend was hit and killed by a drunk… Don’t you think it’s a bit ironic how much you drink?” Sam smiled uncertainly as Jon squinted at him. The silence stretched. Before it got too awkward though, Jeor wandered out of the office.

“Here you go,” Jeor dropped a packet of papers into Sam’s hands and laid a pen on top of it. “Fill these out. I have to go explain to Mance how to use that damn music box again.”

As Jeor wandered off, Sam settled onto a barstool and started filling out the paperwork. Basic tax forms, but it still needed to be done. Jon was still squinting at him, the roles now reversed. Sam was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. He supposed this was how Jon had to feel all the time with fans constantly checking him out. Sam feigned intense interest in the description of what was considered a dependent to the government.

Finally, there were no forms left to sign. Resigned, Sam looked up at Jon, who was still wearing the same facial expression. He hadn’t sipped any more of his whiskey.

“What?” Sam asked.

“I just…I never thought about that,” Jon admitted. “I’ve been drinking ironically.” He finally broke eye contact and stared deeply into his amber whiskey.

“Sounds like the name of a new album,” Sam mumbled.

Jon gave Sam a funny look, then burst out laughing. Sam wasn’t sure what part of that was funny, but Jon seemed like he could use a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Jeor asked as he joined them again.

“This kid,” Jon said as he calmed down. “I like him, Jeor. Keep him around.”

“I already hired him,” Jeor said while he collected Sam’s papers. “If you want to propose, that’s your business…although you should probably jump on that now. He’s going to be a doctor in a few years. He could keep you comfortable.”

“I’m Jon Snow. I don’t need a man to keep me comfortable. I can keep myself and my man comfortable,” Jon shot back. Sam was starting to feel decidedly _un_ comfortable with this turn in the conversation.

“I gotta go,” Sam cut in as he started backing towards the door. “What time should I be here on Thursday?”

“Get here by eight, I guess. Before it gets crowded,” Jeor said. “Ask for Gill to show you the ropes.”

“Okay,” Sam called back as he reached the door. It opened before he could grab the handle though and a small person in a black hoodie tumbled through the door and into his side.

“Oomph, sorry,” he said, but the person had already rebounded and wandered off. That was just how it was with Sam. He didn’t often garner notice, not even when someone crashed into him. It was just his curse, he supposed.


	10. Gilly: Til It Happens To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly takes a pregnancy test and trains her new coworker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last Wall chapter for a while now. We can't help it - these characters are just so fun to write! ;) As a content warning - this chapter does deal with rape aftermath. - K

 

Gilly rubbed a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail out of her eyes. Mance had unwittingly gotten her addicted to Pinterest, and last week they’d had a bit of a girly night (although Mance insisted it was perfectly manly) making body scrubs together out of coffee grinds. Though the concoction smelled delicious and did wonders to her skin, it had left her bathtub stained brown. She’d spent the past half hour diligently scrubbing, humming Jon’s favorite shitty Nickelback song to herself. She hated the band, but “Photograph” was just so damn catchy… 

Absolutely _none_ of this had to do with the fourth pregnancy test she’d taken this week sitting on the back of the toilet.

Accepting that there was no more cleaning to be done, Gilly threw her final dirty paper towel in the take-out bag by her feet. Leaning towards the toilet, just inches away from her in the cramped bathroom, she took in a deep breath. A quick glance at the pregnancy test, and it joined the dirty paper towels and shower scum in her trash bag.

Yep, she was pregnant.

~

Gilly charged into The Wall, bumping into a figure in scrubs on the way in. God, was that a doctor? Getting a drink before he went to Mother’s Mercy? She shuddered as she ran into the back room to hang up her hoodie before getting to work. Regardless of what she decided to do with her baby, she sincerely hoped that all of her doctors were sober.

“Gill!” Jeor greeted as he joined her in the office. During the past few weeks, she’d grown used to being in the room again. It definitely helped that Mance and Jeor had changed the décor a bit, either hoping to cheer her up with the constantly changing cheap flower bouquets or to distract her. Regardless, their actions were sweet. She also knew that they had set a private eye or something on the case, but had decided not to ask too many questions. It was easier to get over the entire situation that way.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, then realized her mistake. She was actually half an hour early. But she needed to keep busy, and so here she was.

“No matter,” Jeor said. He glanced at the clock behind her, blinking a few times before he shook his head. “Anyway, we just hired a janitor.”

Gilly nodded. “Excellent.” The place really could use one. And besides, she knew what Mance and Jeor were about. It wasn’t just that the floor needed mopping at night or that the bathrooms needed a good wipe down now and again. They didn’t want _anyone_ at the bar alone after the robbery.

After the rape.

Gilly suppressed a shudder as she walked back into the bar room. She smiled in greeting at Mance before ducking behind the bar. “Shift’s over,” she informed him.

“You meet our new hire?” Mance asked. “He just left. Seems he has a crush on Jonny Boy over here.” He nodded towards a corner table, where Jon was typing feverishly into his iPhone.

“You got that backwards,” Jeor informed him, joining them and sitting down across the bar. “I think Jon has a crush on Sam.” He smirked at Mance and turned to Gilly, suddenly serious. “Now, Gill, you know we’ll still be here at night, until everyone feels comfortable with the new kid, right?"

“Even if that happens never,” Mance assured her. “We’ll never leave you alone with someone you don’t feel safe around.”

God, it was infuriating. Gilly knew that Mance and Jeor were just trying their hardest to be nice and understanding, but she wasn’t some fragile flower. “It’s not like that,” she insisted. “I mean, you didn’t hire a scumbag, did you? It’s not like I feel unsafe around all men now.” If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to ride the bus or walk down the street. Yeah, there were days she felt suspicious and uncomfortable around strange men. But, if she was being honest with herself, things had been like that for years. That’s what came with being a woman, unfortunately. “I appreciate the concern, guys, but I’m sure you hired someone fine.”

~

Luckily for Gilly, the more she kept herself occupied, the faster time went by. That meant less time spent thinking about the decision she had to make. She knew at the very least she would have to confide in Jeor and Mance. She didn’t have any other friends, unless she counted Jon, and there was only so much one person could keep bottled up for so long.

Before she knew it, it was Thursday night. After repeatedly assuring Mance and Jeor that she was fine training the new guy, Sam, on her own, the two decided to give her a bit of space and not work on Thursday evening. “We’re always a phone call away,” Jeor assured her.

“You can text me,” Mance added. “I know all about emoji.”

Gilly rolled her eyes at that one, though she definitely intended to pull out her pink 5c if things were slow tonight to text Mance and Jeor, letting them know all was well. She’d include a few emoji for good measure, even though Jeor almost never texted back.

It was a slow night, unsurprisingly. Jon wasn’t scheduled to perform, and yet he still was on stage, strumming on his acoustic as his friends sat in the corner. Robb was laughing as Theon tried to flirt with some much older women, who definitely only had eyes for Robb. Not that Gilly could blame them. Robb was an attractive man, though, if she thought about it, not her type.

What _was_ her type? Gilly thought about that as she sliced up some limes to keep behind the bar. The two older women were each on their fourth rum and Coke and Theon was trying to cajole them with tequila shots. Yep, limes were definitely the hot commodities tonight. Gilly wanted someone quieter than Theon, certainly. Perhaps as smart as Robb, though less handsome. She didn’t fool herself and knew that he was way out of her league. Someone who made her laugh, but someone quiet and thoughtful, too. But not broody thoughtful like Jon. More… open-minded? Sincere? Intelligent?

Down to earth. That was the phrase she was looking for. Something cocky Theon, knowingly handsome Robb, and hipster-ish Jon were not.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice said, pulling Gilly from her thoughts. She looked up from her work with the limes to see a tall, heavy-set boy, around her age. “I’m here for the janitor job. Was told to ask for Gill.”

Gilly placed her knife down and smiled at the boy. “Great. Follow me,” she instructed him, heading out from behind the bar to lead him to the back room so he could hang up his coat and store his phone and wallet. “This is where we hang up our jackets,” she informed him, closing the door slightly behind them to show him the hooks on the back. “Jeor wants us to keep our phones back here, but when it’s slow, no one really minds if you have yours out.” She shrugged and smiled back at the boy as he took off his jacket. “I’m still learning the bartending ropes, so I keep mine on me to look up recipes sometimes.”

“Huh,” he laugh-grunted at her. He seemed a little dazed. Self conscious, Gilly ducked under his arms and lead him to the utility closet near the bathrooms. 

“All of the janitorial stuff is in here,” she informed him. “But I guess for now you can come learn the back of the bar with me.”

“Is Gill not here yet, then?” the boy asked, following her behind the bar. He bumped into one of Mance’s rakes in passing, nearly causing it to topple to the ground. Theon started laughing, as did the older women, causing the boy to blush up to his ears.

Gilly squinted at him as she helped him right the broom. “I’m Gill,” she said. “Gilly Craster.”

“O-oh!” he said, startled enough that the rake began to topple again. One of the wine glasses attached to it fell out of its slot, but Gilly caught it and placed it back. “I’m so sorry.” He extended his hand to her. “I’m Sam. Sam Tarly.”

He was still blushing intensely. _Does he have a crush on me or something?_ Gilly thought to herself. In all honesty, she thought Sam was cute in a doofy sort of way. Klutziness was sort of adorable. _Oh, wait. He’s the one who has a crush on Jon!_ Her eyes darted across the bar. Jon had given up playing to join his brother and Theon for Yuenglings. The cougars had moved on from Theon, to his disappointment, but Jon paid no mind to them, instead chatting animatedly with Robb. _He’s really cheered up lately_ , Gilly thought to herself as she headed back to finish cleaning up the lime situation. The cougars motioned for another drink, so she didn’t dwell on the subject for much longer. “Come on, Sam,” she called behind her as she reached for some bottom shelf rum. “It’s time to show you the ropes.”

~

The night went by quickly enough. Business was slow, with only a few more customers coming in and the boys (and the cougars) leaving early enough. Sam helped as best as he could before giving the bathrooms a thorough wipe-down, mopping up the bar as Gilly cleaned all the surfaces, and taking out the trash. He helped her with the dishes, too. Throughout the course of the night, he began to warm up to her. He still stammered on occasion, but he only managed to break two glasses (she’d broken three on her first night) and his blushing had ceased. That was a shame. She sort of found it to be endearing.

Gilly was fairly certain that Sam _wasn’t_ gay and was just a Jon Snow fanboy. When his phone lit up with a text, she saw that a Stark Naked song was paused on the “Now Playing” section of his screen. The way he kept staring at her butt whenever she had to bend over to get some cheap liquor from the bottom shelf or beer from the chest was a sure indicator that he liked women, or at least her. But with everything going on, Gilly most definitely wasn’t in the market for a relationship.

A little after close, Mance and Jeor swept into the bar. Gilly refrained from rolling her eyes. She’d texted them saying all was well and that Sam was a hard worker, but apparently they were adamant in making sure she felt safe. It was super sweet, but also super unnecessary and a little stifling. They went over the day with Sam, Jeor talked W-2s with him, and then they told the boy he could go.

“I’ll see you next time,” Sam called behind him as he exited from the front door, waving at all of them. He seemed to make a special effort to cast one last nervous look over his shoulder, smiling awkwardly when Gilly met his eyes.

“So, all good in dodge?” Jeor asked as the men followed Gilly into the office, where she grabbed her hoodie.

Alright. That was enough. Gilly whipped around, her hoodie strings flying and stinging her arms on the way. “Look, guys,” she said, a bit stronger than she meant to as she slid the sweatshirt on, “I’m _fine_. I’m healing, but I’m okay. You don’t need to follow me around and check on me every five minutes like I’m some wounded puppy.” The visits to her apartment had dropped down to weekly dinners (and craft nights with Mance, but those were super fun), but checking in on her at The Wall when she’d reassured them that everything was okay? This was getting absurd.

She zipped up her hoodie and grabbed her open hobo bag off of the corner of the desk, stomping out of the office, hoping they would get the point. “I’m sorry, Gill,” Jeor said.

“Yeah, we’ll back off.” That was Mance.

“Just trying to help is all.”

Gilly turned around, feeling a little guilty for her outburst. “It’s fine, guys. I appreciate your kindness. I really do, it’s just… I wouldn’t mind just a little bit more space, okay?”

But something was wrong. Jeor and Mance weren’t answering her, simply staring at her feet. She blinked at them, wondering if they were stoned or something. Then Mance bent down and picked something up.  “Gilly, what’s this?”

 _Oh no_. Gilly felt her face go white. Two brochures had fallen out of her bag, one on prenatal health and one all about “alternative options.” Just the other day, she’d gone to see a doctor at Mother’s Mercy. They’d taken a blood test and given her some literature, and her follow-up was tomorrow.

It was obviously time to tell Jeor and Mance. Gilly pulled a stool down from atop the bar and sat. “Well, I guess there’s something I should tell you.”

~

The basics were this: Yes, she’d taken medication after the rape. The doctor had given her all sorts of pills – ones that stopped the onset of HIV, ones to erase any chance of pregnancy. But she’d also been very ill in those next few days, and had even thrown up after leaving the hospital. Regardless, nothing was exactly one hundred percent.

She’d been tested and was lucky not to have contracted any diseases, if she considered herself lucky at all for what had happened to her, which she didn’t. And they’d completed a rape kit and everything. The situation had obviously been traumatizing, and she remembered little of the specifics or what the doctor and nurses had told her about a risk of pregnancy or infection. Any pamphlets she’d been given she’d thrown in the trash, not wanting to see a reminder of that day.

Mance and Jeor were so kind, offering to look into health insurance for her. But Gilly had taken care of all of that. As much as she hated her father, she was still in her early twenties and on his health insurance. She only had to sit on hold for half an hour before the insurance company agreed to send a card in the mail to her and also gave her all important information over the phone.

She was exhausted Friday morning when she woke up. She, Mance, and Jeor had sat talking at The Wall until daylight. They’d agreed to give her space, but she had a feeling that with all of the news they’d received, they felt even more protective of her. “We’ll respect whatever decision you make, Gilly,” Mance had assured her. “And we’ll be here for you whenever you need us.”

“Or we’ll stay out of your way,” Jeor had added.

“Or we’ll stay out of your way.”

But now was it was Friday afternoon, and Gilly was leaving Mother’s Mercy. The obstetrician she’d met with was so kind and welcoming. She hadn’t made Gilly feel any shame when she asked about abortion – the cost, whether it was a procedure or a course of medication. But in the end, when it came time to schedule an appointment, Gilly felt herself shaking. “I can’t,” she said, and then the shaking stopped.

She hadn’t thought about the child growing inside her as an actual being until this moment. And in that moment, sitting on the table, knees pressed together, back straight, she realized she very much wanted this child. Her own family – one she made _herself_ , with friends like Mance and Jeor and maybe, just maybe, this child. She still had so many months to decide. She could always give the baby up for adoption.

“I’m keeping this baby,” she said. “I think… I want to keep this baby.”

When she left the hospital, she collided with a figure. She was doing that a lot lately. Maybe the pregnancy hormones were making her clumsy. Her green hobo bag, which had been precariously dangling from her wrist, fell to the walkway. “Sorry! So sorry!” a familiar voice said.

The other person bent down to help her pick up her bag. Yet again, brochures had fallen out of her purse – this time on prenatal health, the different trimesters of pregnancy, and labor training. Also on sex during pregnancy, but Gilly was fairly certain that wasn’t going to happen. The man picked them up and handed them to her as they both stood up, and that’s when she locked eyes with Sam Tarly.

“O-oh!” he stammered. “Gilly! Fancy seeing you here!”

 _Great_ . Obviously Sam was going to find out she was pregnant at some point if he kept working at The Wall, but dropping pamphlets was not the way she had planned to let _anyone_ know, let alone every single one of her coworkers. “Fancy seeing you here too,” she replied.

“I’m just here to get my last paycheck,” he said, speaking quickly, obviously embarrassed. “Used to be an orderly here. Studying to be a doctor.”

“Wow,” Gilly replied, genuinely impressed. “That’s really cool. You must be very smart.”

Sam shrugged. “Oh, well. You know.” She wanted to encourage him to accept the compliment, but he stuttered, “So, a… a baby!”

Gilly nodded, her lips forming into a thin line. “Yep. A baby.”

“Congratulations!”

And that’s when Gilly smiled. The obstetrician, who had known her situation, as well as Mance and Jeor, had been sympathetic and kind. But Sam was the first person to congratulate her on her pregnancy. And now… Well, she was nervous, and still upset and confused, but also… Also happy.

“Thank you,” she said, and she genuinely meant it.

“So I’ll see you at The Wall!”

“See you there!”

The two parted ways, and Gilly headed out onto the street, opening up the Uber app on her phone. Jeor and Mance… They were lucky to never know the pain she went through that night of the robbery. No one did know what it was like to suffer from that trauma until it happened to them. But, she realized, glancing down at her still flat stomach, they would also never know the joy of carrying a new life.

Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.


	11. Missandei: Run the World (Girls)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting development takes place on Daenerys Targaryen's tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so, so sorry this took so long to post! I wrote this chapter, and I had a lot of trouble with it at first, but in the end, I had a lot of fun writing these characters. I hope it was worth the wait! We'll try to get things posted sooner. Our goal is a weekly update, but life happens. Thanks for sticking with us and reading! - K

In the eerie, low light provided from her laptop, Missandei typed furiously. She was hard at work in her office, which was, in fact, the small dinette area of the tour bus. Jorah was driving, Dany was finally sleeping, and Grey was doing the same, except sitting up, pretending to gaze out the window. As if sleep showed weakness.

But Missandei didn’t have time to sleep. It helped that she didn’t want Jorah to be the only one awake due to what she justified as safety concerns, but when it came down to it, she wanted to be alert and working. Missandei had always enjoyed the thrill of a conquest. In journalism, that had led her to find the best sources and stories. Now, it helped her secure the finest venues and shows for up-and-coming rock star Daenerys Targaryen.

Missandei was Dany’s personal assistant and had been for about six months now. And while life on the road performing a completely underfunded surprise tour wasn’t glamorous or even remotely something she would’ve imagined herself doing this time last year, there was something to love about every minute of it.

Tonight’s mission: Set up a pop-up concert. The bus was en route from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia. Late tomorrow evening, Dany was to perform at a medium-sized up-and-coming venue in what could only be described as the “hipster-hood” of the city. What sort of trouble could Missandei scrounge up for her between now and then?

Of course, the next few days were pretty much scheduled. From Philly, the tour would head to Baltimore. They had a strict timetable to adhere to if they were going to make a scheduled show in New Orleans next week. But if Dany really wanted to go from indie cool girl to big name rock star, they were going to need to pick up a few more gigs on the way – small, free shows at parks and bars, or opening for big names if any of their headlining acts had to drop out last minute. And that was why Missandei was working so feverishly into the night, trying to figure out how exactly the rest of the week would be spent.

Dany was good at what she did and managed a lot of it on her own. Occasionally, a dim light shown from her bunk, and Missandei knew that she was responding on Twitter to her fans. Because of this, Missandei ignored the notifications popping up in her Twitter tab. She knew Daenerys was on that. But when a G-chat notification went off, she was surprised, and clicked on the Gmail tab.

 ** _Khal Drogo:_** _hey, gonna throw a birthday party & want you to perform! i can be in london or la. What works for u? lmk_

The name was not one Missandei recognized, so she assumed it was someone Dany had added to her contact list. A quick search revealed no e-mail threads. Who was this guy? How did Dany know him?

Curious, Missandei drew out her cell phone and opened up Instagram. Of course, a quick Google search would bring her info on Khal Drogo if he was anyone important, but that little blue check next to his name on Instagram told her all that she needed to know. He was verified, and that was information enough.

Truly intrigued now, Missandei scrolled through his page, her thumb swiping up along her iPhone screen. Photo after photo showed that whoever this Khal Drogo was, he definitely had some interesting hobbies. Photographs showed him shirtless playing polo with some friends, and he was certainly quite the vision with his broad, muscled chest and array of tattoos. He’d posted group shots of himself with friends at what was clearly a high-end strip club. Missandei’s cheeks heated up as she glanced at the next photograph. Drogo was on a yacht with a group of women, one of whom was twerking in a thong bikini as he poured an expensive bottle of champagne down her round, jiggling ass.

“Missandei.”

Startled, Missandei nearly shut her laptop screen as she glanced up at whoever had called her name. She almost felt as if she had been caught watching porn, and then she remembered that her iPhone was the offended instead. She exited Instagram and met Grey’s eyes. She wanted to tease him about sleeping, but knew better than that. Grey was a quiet guy, but he also took a lot of pride in his job, and as Dany’s head of security felt he always had to be vigilant. The security team presently included three people including Grey, and he was the only member who’d earned a spot on the tour bus – another reason to be extra aware, in his mind.

“What is it?” she asked, regaining her composure as she sat up straighter.

Grey sat down across from her. “You looked…concerned,” he said, taking his time to speak as he always did. Grey always thought about what he wanted to say. From working so closely together, even before they knew Daenerys, Missandei knew that a big reason why was because English was not his first language, and on top of that, he’d had a speech impediment as a child. Even if he had a lot on his mind, talking was something he took seriously and only saved for important occasions. In a way, Missandei admired that about him and tried to emulate this aspect of his personality in her own way.

“Do you know who Khal Drogo is?” she asked, and then immediately blushed again. Luckily it was dark on the bus, so Grey probably wouldn’t notice the slight rosy hue appearing on her cheeks. She was worried, for a moment, that Grey would be one of Drogo’s Instagram followers. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Then she remembered that Grey didn’t even have a Facebook page.

Still, he nodded once. “Yes,” he told her. “He’s the son of a drug lord. Don’t you remember? That interview, in Saudi Arabia?”

And suddenly, for a split second, Missandei was back in Dubai. She was younger, and so was Grey, and they were both excited to be doing what they had always wanted to do. “Yes!” Missandei nearly shouted, overcome for a moment with an intense feeling of excitement. She remembered they were on the bus and that Dany was sleeping, though, and so when she returned to the present she shook out her curls and said, her voice more subdued, “I remember.”

“You translated,” Grey said, stating the obvious. “That interview, it was about Khal Drogo’s father.”

“So…” Missandei said. “Does that mean he’s taken up in his father’s footsteps?” Grey’s expression was one of confusion. He clearly didn’t know the answer, so she slid the laptop his way.

After Grey read the chat, he slid the laptop back across the plastic-lined table to Missandei before glancing at his Android for a few moments. “He has not,” he informed her, and then he flashed the Twitter app on his phone in her face. “He’s a businessman. He works in clothing manufacturing.”

“You have a Twitter?” Missandei asked, momentarily forgetting the point of the conversation in her surprise.

Grey shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

Before Missandei could get more details, another voice joined the conversation. “ _What_ could it possibly be that the two of you are talking about?” A short, athletically curvy blonde girl plopped down on the bench beside Missandei and placed her head on her shoulder. “The two of you are always so quiet but you woke me up.”

“Apologies,” Grey said, truly looking like he felt like a failure.

“Oh, relax, Grey,” Dany said. “I’m just teasing.” She sat up and stretched. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. Twitter is absolutely exploding about the show in Philly tomorrow. I’m excited. Are you?”

Just like Grey and Missandei, she radiated a certain level of calmness despite her words. While Daenerys was certainly the most emotional of the set, perhaps that was why the three of them worked so well together.

“Of course,” Missandei said. “And I think we may have found you another gig. In London? Or L.A.?”

“ _Those_ are quite a way away from one another,” Dany noted with a yawn. She glanced at Missandei’s laptop. “Oh.”

Missandei glanced over at her boss, who now sat ramrod straight. Almost nervously, Dany gathered her white blonde hair into a messy bun atop her head. “Oh?” Missandei asked, hoping for more clarification.

“Khal Drogo,” Dany said, her voice completely flat. “Missandei, Grey… What if I told you while my parents were off being rock stars… I was raised by a drug lord’s wife?”

~

It was almost sunrise, and they were eating cheesesteaks.

Missandei laughed at the absurdity of it all as she sat at the picnic table with Grey, Dany, Jorah, and a few other crew members. They had decided to see whether Pat’s or Geno’s really was the best place in Philly for the famous meal. Geno’s was flashier and made for better posts on Dany’s Instagram page, but the simple Coke sign at Pat’s had won them over. Essentially, both meals tasted the same, and Missandei was stuffed.

The show had been spectacular, but it was important that they got on the road again soon. Still, Dany had insisted that they all take part in a local tradition to really get the feel of the place. She was young, but she knew what she was doing. Local fans had hooted and hollered at the concert when she announced her plans for later this evening. More had replied earnestly on her social media accounts as to which location was better – or which smaller Mom & Pop delis she should head to instead. The venues were throbbing now with customers, from late night revelers to a few fans from tumblr who had staked Dany out. All in all, the night had been a success.

“We’ve got to go,” Jorah insisted eventually, and so they all headed back to the precariously parked tour bus a few blocks away. Missandei felt truly carefree in the moment, giggling and hugging Dany as they walked as if they were drunk on something else than the moment. Grey, stoic as always, walked behind them.

“I’m going to do it,” Dany said as they approached the tour bus. “I think replying to Drogo and performing for his birthday would be a good move for my career.” She was suddenly serious again, though she still walked arm-in-arm with Missandei.

Missandei glanced down at her boss and friend. “He _does_ have quite the array of Instagram followers,” she admitted. Three times the amount that Dany had.

Daenerys nodded. “He’s famous, in his own way, and regardless, I feel I owe it to him.” She shrugged. “Not him, but to the memory of his mother.” From their conversation last night, it was clear to Missandei that even if Khal Drogo meant nothing to Dany, his mother did. Apparently Drogo was about a decade older than Dany, so they hadn’t spent much time together while she was growing up. He’d been off at Eton, and later university.

“You should,” Grey agreed, sidling up next to the women. “It’ll be a new network for you, and help you gain fans and followers overseas.”

On paper, it all looked right. Something in Missandei’s gut, though, made her question it all. Was it that Drogo was the son of a drug lord? Or was she just drawing back on that experience from her old job?

Dany whipped out her phone the second they got on the bus. Jorah was already driving off as she started to send out the e-mail. “Wait,” Missandei called out. “You’re not doing this for free, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Dany asked as she plopped down onto her bottom bunk. Missandei stood before her, a small frown on her face as she crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s an old family friend, and besides, Grey is right.” Dany gestured towards Grey, who was carefully pulling the sheets back on his own Spartan, neatly made bed. Missandei didn’t look his way, but she could bet that he had the slightest of a triumphant smile on his typically stern face. “It’ll definitely help me build my fan base, and maybe even generate a little bit of controversy, which in this case is a good thing.”

Missandei shook her head. “It’s not like he can’t afford it,” she reminded her boss. “I say we ask for $30,000.”

“30k?” Dany nearly screeched, incredulous. She dropped her phone on the bunk. “That’s a lot of money, Missandei. We’ve been happily making a few hundred or thousand here and there. Why do you want that much?”

“An entire weekend in his service? And please, the man is loaded.” She remembered the photos from the yacht and rolled her eyes. “That’s a pittance to him.”

“He’s a family friend and he’s doing me as much of a favor as I’m doing him.” Dany shook her head. “Look, I didn’t interact much with Khal growing up because he was so much older than me, but the guy was smart. He didn’t need rich parents to get him into a good university. He had the grades and the athletic prowess, too.” As if the athletic skill had anything to do with the conversation. Missandei worried Dany might be in this for something else.

“As your personal assistant, I really can’t advise this,” Missandei stated succinctly.

It wouldn’t have been unreasonable for Daenerys to remind her employee that a personal assistant didn’t advise – they _assisted_. But their relationship was so much more than that, and Dany was too magnanimous, at least with those she held dear, to make such a statement over something like this. Instead, the blonde girl slumped back into her bunk. “We’ll sleep on this and discuss it in the morning, alright?”

Missandei didn’t think there was a chance she had won this round. Dany knew what she wanted, but not always what she needed. In this case, it was Drogo’s money just as much as his networking ability. Sure, thirty thousand fans would get Dany closer to her goal, but thirty thousand dollars could, too. It was ridiculous to expect their roadies to follow them around in their little, beat up cars for not that awesome of a payout.

But Missandei let it go and prepared for bed after Grey agreed to stay awake in his bunk, reading. She climbed up to the top bed and changed into her crop top and boxers before settling underneath the sheets, her phone beneath the pillow. But even after she heard Dany’s breathing slow and deepen, sleep didn’t come.

The sun had risen over an hour ago by the time Missandei pulled her phone from beneath her pillow and opened up the Mail app, switching to the official press and booking inbox.

_From: Daenerys Targaryen <danytargaryen.booking@gmail.com>_

_To: Khal Drogo <khal.drogo@drogoenterprises.com>_

_Subject: Performance Booking_

_Miss Targaryen would be happy to perform as requested. Her starting fee is $30,000, which can be negotiated based on what you have in mind. As she is presently busy with a tour, the date would have to fall after that of any commitments she already has. Please reply with the exact dates, times, and locations you have in mind, and I will get back to you as promptly as I can. Thank you, and we look forward to hearing from you._

_Missandei Naath_

_Press & Booking_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. E & I are going on vacation together the last week of September, so we might not get back to replies in as timely a fashion as usual - and it's really, really probable there won't be an update that week.


End file.
